


The Blue Line Cafe

by M_A_C



Category: Blue Bloods (TV), Chicago Fire, Chicago Med, Chicago PD (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Blue Bloods Crossover, Gen, One Chicago (Chicago Franchise), Original Character(s), Original Female Character(s) - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:28:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 27,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23466118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/M_A_C/pseuds/M_A_C
Summary: Needing a fresh start, Claire Reagan packs up and moves to Chicago to open up The Blue Line Cafe in honor of her NYPD brother. With a name like that, it isn't long before she meets an enigmatic  CPD Sergeant and trouble starts brewing.*Begins @ Season 3 of Chicago P.D with AU liberties take*Also published on Wattpad [https://www.wattpad.com/story/219242399-the-blue-line-cafe]
Relationships: Hank Voight/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 30
Kudos: 165





	1. Welcome to The Blue Line Cafe

When her alarm went off at 4:30am, Claire Reagan knew it was too early to be awake and operational. She didn’t bother opening her eyes as she patted her hand around to shut off her alarm. She just knew it was gonna be one of those days - in fact,  _ those  _ kinds of days are quickly becoming a pattern since she moved to Chicago four months ago. Construction was stop-and-go for a time, deliveries for equipment and furniture was slow, and dealing with bureaucratic red-tape for licensing and things as simple as outdoor seating was the worst to deal with. Claire hadn’t realized how much her last name had subtly helped her with legalities until she came here. Now, none of that ‘Reagan Good Will’ meant anything. 

Part of her wanted to call out from opening preparation, stay inside her half-unpacked and cluttered apartment curled up under weighted blankets in bed watching the Food Network. She’d call it a “self-care day” but her business partner and best friend Dominic would call it being a chicken-shit and tell her to put her big-girl panties on.

The Blue Line Cafe had been open a week and the traffic was worse than slow with maybe three, at best five, people coming in a day. That wasn’t enough to cover costs, let alone her guilt of dragging Dominic halfway across the country and away from their already established business in New York. She sighed, staring up at the ceiling, asking herself for the millionth time since packing a Uhaul and crossing the George Washington Bridge -  _ what the hell am I doing _ ?

As much as she hated to do it, Claire rolled herself out of bed and got into the shower. Twenty minutes later, she was dressed in a light grey jersey tee tucked into her jeans and tossed her brown hair into a messy bun on her way to the door. She stopped before the mirror in the hallway as she picked up her keys from the bowl. She untucked her silver crucifix and a long bar pendant from underneath her shirt. She took a moment to stroke the pendant, running her fingers over the numbers etched into it - 46808. She pulled on her cognac brown corduroy sherpa trucker jacket, kissed her crucifix and whispered a prayer to Saint Michael on her way out the door. 

***

She was on autopilot as she drove the couple blocks to the cafe. The sun hadn’t risen yet so the streets were still covered in an early autumn blanket of darkness and mist with only the warm glow of the street lights to guide her way. The front of the cafe was dark like the other shops along the strip as she drove past to circle around to the service entrance in the back. The kitchen lights were on when she entered and the sound of the ovens warming up and the coffee grinder making fresh grounds. 

“Lucy, I’m home!” Claire sang out as she stripped out of her jacket and walked into the office she shared with Dom. She threw her coat over the back of the chair and crouched down to love on the sleepy German Shepherd curled up on his forest green dog bed. “ _ Lucy _ !”

“Call me  _ Lucy  _ one more time and see what happens,” Dom muttered around the rim of his mug as he leaned against the door frame, a batter smeared tea towel slung over his shoulder.

He held out another mug for Claire. Although flour dusted his khaki canvas apron and arms, she could still clearly make out the Special Warfare insignia of an  eagle clutching an anchor, trident, and flintlock style pistol on his left forearm. The phrase ‘ _ fair winds and following seas’ _ was scripted in a semi-circle curving around the bottom of the insignia.

Lt. Commander Dominic James Monaghan, retired SEAL and current USN reservist, may sound menacing with his deep timber but the mischievous sparkle in his green eyes were anything but. A lifetime in the service has left him appearing stiff and emotionally reserved, he has a softer, goofier and warmer side he holds back for family. 

She gave Gunner, Dom’s service dog, a kiss on the forehead and a scratch under the chin before she stood up and accepted the mug from Dom. Standing at 6’1” and solidly built, he towered over Claire and it always gave him a kick.

“What, no kiss for me?” Dom pouted, a furrow developing between his brows. 

She pushed onto her tip-toes and gave him a chaste kiss on his cheek. She could feel his cheek pull into a smile and she gave him another peck. She patted his chest, causing a small cloud of flour to puff off, and brushed past him, the empty cooling racks and into the kitchen. 

She took a sip of her coffee and paused to savor the smoked nutty taste of black coffee. A second later, she caught a blur of khaki out of the corner of her eye before it thumped against the side of her face. She barely managed to catch her apron without sloshing her coffee over herself. 

“Rude,” she gave Dom a half-hearted glare. She set her coffee down on the nearest counter to pull her arpon over her head and wrap the ties around her torso before tying it in the back. 

“You know,” Claire drawled as she watched Dom pour more cream than coffee into his new cup. “For someone who graduated top of his BUD/S class, it still surprises me you don’t take your coffee black.”

“Like you?” Dom scoffed, taking a satisfying sip. He shook his head. “I solely blame your brothers for that disgusting corruption.”

“If it was up to you, I’d have a cavity.”

“If it was up to me, we wouldn’t have a drip machine-”

“Only pour over,” Claire chorused with him. They’d been having the same  _ ‘discussion’  _ for over a decade. She made a poor attempt at lowering her voice, growling out, “ _ Drip coffee is good.  _ Excellent  _ coffee should be brewed, properly attended so it can be properly enjoyed _ .”

“Say it like that you make me sound like some elitist gate-keeper,” Dom scoffed, picking up a pinch of flour from his station and flicking it at Claire. 

“Please, like you aren’t?” She walked around him to grab another sack of flour to help Dom with another batch of dough. “So. What’ve you started on?”

“I have a couple savories - rolls, loafs, sticks, bagels - resting already. Wanna take on the sweets while I get food prepped?”

Claire gave a curt nod. “Sounds good to me. Grab me the nuts and fruits?”

For the rest of the early morning, the two worked on muscle memory with the sounds of Dom’s Spotify playlist playing in the background as they chatted and bantered back and forth. Her fingers moved on their own and soon she was moving on to danishes, cookies, toppings and fillings for doughnuts and pies. Dom went off into his head while he hummed the tune of a song while slicing strips of meat so Claire allowed her own mind to wander to the million other things they would need to do before opening. 

Time passed quickly and soon the dark sky lightened with strokes of gold, orange, and pink. Claire stifled a yawn as the warmth and smells of the bakery soothed some of her tension and lulled her thoughts. A scratch of keys in the front door and the jingle of the overhead bell had Claire opening her eyes and turning her head towards the open serving hatch. 

Dom blew out a low whistle and glanced at the clock above the hatch. “Cutting it real close, kid. We open in five.”

“I know, I know,” Javier Olivos, the love child of a cinnamon roll and an uncoordinated golden retriever, apologized. In his rush, he bumped into a couple tables and knocked a chair off one of them. He glanced down at it for a moment before charging forward to the hatch. “I’m so sorry Claire, Dom, but Nonno needed the car for Abuela’s early doctor’s appointment so I had to take Laura to school and I only have a bike-”

“Javi-” Claire waved off his hurried excuses, “breathe, okay? Not a problem, just next time text ahead, alright? Put your bag up and start opening the front room.”

Javi breathed a sigh of relief and gave Claire a broad, full-tooth smile that wrinkled his cheeks. He double-tapped the hatch and shot her a finger-gun as he jogged off. Claire watched Javi jog back into the front, tying his grey apron on as he went, and could feel Dom’s heavy sigh building in him. She held up her hand and shot him a look before Dom could say anything.

“I wasn’t gonna say anything,” Dom said as he pulled trays off the cooling racks for the display cases. 

“Nope,” Claire shook her head as she moved to help Dom take out trays. “Know you my whole life, Nicky, you staring at the back of my head felt like something.”

“Just think you’re soft on him, is all,” Dom shrugged, taking two trays and walking backwards to the kitchen door. “Think he needs a firm hand.”

“And that’s supposed to be you?” Claire raised her eyebrows and followed him out with two trays of her own. “I can be firm! I was definitely being firm.”

“Firm with what?” Javi asked as he went from table to table lifting chairs and placing them underneath their tables. He curled his fingers around the dark walnut curved back of a chair and leaned against it. 

“With you,” Dom nodded at him. He set his two trays on the counter before taking Claire’s two and placing them down as well. “She’s too soft with you. I prepped the machines already so when you’re done with the chairs do a test run before putting the goods on display.”

“Please,” Javi added before he could stop himself from earning another glare. “I-I mean, you should always say please, right? Nonno always said ‘good manners, not beauty, leads to love’ - not saying that you’re not beautiful or anything, Commander, you’re gorgeous in that G.I. Joe kinda way-”

“Enough, enough,” Dom waved Javi off. He looked to Claire but saw she was biting her lip trying not to laugh. He pointed his finger at her when she began smiling. “Don’t.”

Dom walked off back to the kitchen, grabbing the tea towel from his shoulder and slapping it onto the other shoulder after wringing it between his hands. When the kitchen door swung shut, Claire couldn’t help but release the chuckle. Javi gave her a conspirator’s wink and finished up putting all the chairs away. 

With the cafe opening up at 7am, the first customer didn’t stroll in until an hour later giving Claire and Javier enough time to place the goods in the display cases and write the names in dark blue in liquid chalk on the glass. 

“Welcome to the Blue Line Cafe,” Claire greeted the bouncy blonde EMT that walked through the door.

The blonde took a moment to take in the space, her mouth opened a little and her wide eyes held a kind sparkle in them. The cafe wasn’t as large or decorated in emotionlessly stainless steel like corporate coffee shops, but handcrafted by Dom and lovingly designed by Claire to bring a slice of New York City to the Windy City. While the exterior brick of the cafe was painted NYPD Blue, the interior red brick was left exposed except the white tile behind the counter. Tesla light bulbs in industrial cages of New York iron dropped like pendants at various lengths from the ceiling. The walnut detailing in the display cases and the matching flooring was broken up by a white marbled counter. There was only one wall left untouched by the various posters and prints of Brooklyn and the family photos of the Reagans and the Monaghans that hung around the cafe. 

The wall the EMT was engrossed with was painted black with a single thin blue line running across the center. There were four flags hung vertically on the wall - on the left was the dark blue flag of the United States Navy and a flag reminiscent of the American flag yet with 5 green and white bars and 24 stars in a circular pattern. To the right were two blag flags, one for the Wounded Warrior Project and the other remembering prisoners of war. Between the flags were three shadow boxes, each with their own photo, ribbons, medals and a triangular American flag. 

“This place is something else,” the blonde said, turning to smile at Claire. “How long has this place been here?”

“Hello. Good morning. It’s nice to meet you, too,” Claire chuckled kindly. She held out her hand to shake. “I’m Claire Reagan, the co-owner. And we’re going on a week of snail-like business.”

“Sylvie Brett, C.F.D. E.M.T.” She smiled, pointing at the CFD emblem on the left breast of her grey t-shirt. “That’s hard to believe since your coffee is unbelievably good!”

Claire raised an eyebrow. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Brett, but with all the slow traffic I know every face of everyone that’s been in my cafe and you’re not one of them. Granted, it’s less than twenty, but the point still stands.”

“Oh, right, sorry!” She closed her eyes and shook her head as if to get rid of her scattered brain. “Chili and I - my partner, I mean - were on a call yesterday night and the jerk’s equally awful girlfriend got pissed off that we called the cops on him and decided my face would be the best place to dump out her coffee. Luckily it wasn’t hot enough to burn and I would have been pissed, too, if the coffee in my mouth wasn’t like cocaine!”

Claire laughed aloud at that. “Rave review; I’ll be sure to put in on our Yelp page - ‘ _ Chicago EMT claims the coffee is just as good as cocaine’ _ .”

“Well, she was too busy being cuffed to say where she got it so I snapped a picture of the logo on the cup.” Brett pulled out her phone to show Claire one of her white to-go cups stained with coffee, dirt, and most likely blood to the point the hand-stamped logo was smeared. “Took me and the guys a minute to figure out what it said but - hey! I found you! And really close to the station house, too.”

“Really?” Claire’s brows furrowed. Although she’s been here nearly five months, it didn’t surprise her she overlooked the bright red behemoth trucks because all of her time was split between her apartment, Dom’s, the cafe, the bank, and her new church. All of which are conveniently within 15-20 minutes of each other. 

“Yeah! Firehouse 51,” Brett proudly proclaimed. 

“Well, EMT Sylvie Brett of Chicago Firehouse 51, can you remember any tastes or smells from the coffee-facial? I’d be happy to make you one.”

With a little assistance, Brett told Claire as much as she could leaving Claire to fill in the blanks. Surprisingly, what she wanted was  _ The Nola _ \- named after New Orleans because it was brewed with chicory to give it its distinct chocolate-caramel flavoring. Claire nods with a smile, tapping the counter twice before she got to work. 

“Oh! Can you make two, size medium, please? Chili will  _ kill  _ me if I don’t bring her back one.”

“So, Brett,” Claire calls, pulling out two take-away cups with the Blue Line’s logo stamped on the side. “Tell me about life as a Chicago EMT.”

Claire’s practiced movements were both precise and serene as she listened to Brett excitedly chatter away, her voice pleasantly mixing with the soft music playing overhead and the soothing noise of the coffee machines. In no time at all, Claire had the cups filled and in a cardboard carrier for two. The woman was so caught up in her retelling of one of her calls, she watched Claire assemble a baker’s dozen of assorted goods without really processing what Claire was doing. She continued to talk even as Claire wrote on the clear top of the box what each pastry was, pulled out a business card and a paper menu from beneath the counter, and taped the two on top of the box. It wasn’t until Claire rang up the grand total of $5.25 that Brett stopped talking.

“Are you serious?” Brett asked, glancing from the coffee to the register. “For  _ two  _ coffees?”

“Don’t forget the goodies,” Claire teased, pushing the box closer to Brett. When the woman still looked dumbfounded, Claire gave her a soft smile. “15% off for all first responders and hospital staff. Always. The box is my way of advertising. What better way to boost business than bribe the local fire department? In my experience, those fellas are bottomless pits.”

“You’ve got that right,” Brett muttered, still a touch shocked, as she paid with a $10. Her change went immediately into the jar. “ Oh, Claire, you do not know what you just did when I tell the guys about this place.”

Claire only smiled and walked Brett to the door, holding it open for the woman as her hands were full at the moment. “That’s kind of the point.”


	2. Firehouse 51

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Station calls in a dinner order and Claire delivers. Was it the right call?

Around noon, the cafe got a call for a dinner order. The Blue Line doesn’t offer much in terms of “dinner,” just the standard cafe menu items - sandwiches, soups, salads, and entire pages devoted to breakfast foods and pastries. Anything beyond that would be vaguely clumped under the banner of “Dom’s Daily” with an asterisk stating whatever you ordered was whatever Dom felt like making that day. 

“The Blue Line Cafe, where NYC meets Windy City,” Javier answered the phone. Claire raised her eyebrow as she finished up a customer’s order. Javi put his hand over the receiver to whisper, “What? We need a catch-phrase”.

Claire simply rolled her eyes and gave the customer their order. She was about to take the next one when Javi hip bumped her gently out of the way. “I’ve got this one. Phone’s for you.”

“Me?” Claire muttered, wiping her hands on her apron before picking up the hardline hanging on the wall. “Blue Line, this is Claire.”

“ _ So you’re the one sugering up these fire jockeys? _ ” A very straight-forward woman fired off. 

“I’m….sorry, Miss?” Claire wasn’t sure what to say so an apology seemed appropriate. 

“ _ Connie, Chief Boden’s assistant at Firehouse 51. And don’t bother; these boys can’t stop singing your praises. That’s why I’m calling, hun. Boy’s are out on a call right now but wanted me to put in a dinner order for tonight. _ ”

“Pick up or delivery?”

“ _ Delivery _ .”

“Cafe stops serving food at 6pm, but the coffee and displays are open until we close shop at 8pm. What time were you thinking?”

Once they settled on delivery time, Connie let out a huff before listing off each individual and sporadic order for Claire to copy on a ticket. On a couple of the firefighter’s names, Claire had to ask Connie to slowly spell them out. Within a couple minutes, there was a neat stack of tickets waiting to be filled. 

The shop was slow enough, not unusual, for Claire to leave the front to Javi while she and Dom prepped as much of the orders as they could without actually fulfilling them five and a half hours early. By the time 4:30pm crawled around, Dom and Claire worked seamlessly to complete Station 51’s orders. 

After Dom finished cooking, grilling, and frying, Claire would wrap and package. Everything that needed to be wrapped was done so with the day’s  _ New York Times _ spread and placed in a box the color of NYPD blue with the cafe’s logo stamped in white on the top. Taping the receipt to the top of the box was the finishing touch Javi needed to place the box in a crate. 

“Picasso,” Dom yelled as he came out of the office. Javi stuck his head in the hatch. “Grab a crate.”

“And who said you’re taking my car?” Claire asked, motioning to her keys in his hand. Gunner jotted out with Claire’s jacket slung over his harness and sat down at her feet.

“ _ You _ are taking your car.” He smiled at her. When Javi went to walk past him, Dom stopped the boy, took the crate from him, and nodded back to the front. “You get the second one.”

“And why not you, oh charming co-owner and creator of the delicious food?” Claire took her jacket from Gunner and slid it on.

“And socialize?” He kicked open the service door with a decisive grunt. “That’s your department.”

“Want me to?” Javi cheerfully offered, hoisting his crate higher. “I’m a great people person.”

“I know you are,  _ tramposo _ ,” Claire winked. “Won’t see you till tomorrow morning.”

Javi rolled his eyes and headed out back before Dom started yelling for him. Claire grabbed a catering-size thermos and filled it with the house blend coffee, packing 15 cups of logo-stamped cups. She headed to her car with her load to watch Dom and Javi strap down the crates in the cargo area. She buckled in the thermos and the cups in the passenger seat as the boys finished up. 

“That does it,” Dom announced, shutting the cargo hatch. He lightly double-tapped Javi’s chest with the back of his hand in a quiet dismissal. 

Javi waved at Claire asking as he walked backwards towards the service door, “Bring me back a fire hat, will ya?” 

“Don’t you dare,” Dom all but growled. They both knew the kid would want to wear the hat and claim he was still “in uniform” promoting the Blue Line’s brand. Gunner couldn’t help but give a soft “whoof” in agreement with his dad.

“We’ll see.” Claire kissed Gunner’s snout and patted Dom on his cheek before getting into her car and driving away.

Brett was right - the fire station was a two minute drive down the road. She pulled in and parked just after 6pm to see four men in blue trousers and grey emblem shirts playing cornhole in front of the garage. When Claire got out of the Forester, the dark haired one with the 70s prono-stache shot his bag and missed as he jogged over to the car. 

“Hey! Hi!” The man waved, stopping a few feet away. Behind him his friends shared a look before slowly walking over. 

“Hey,” Claire smiled, offering her hand. “Claire Reagan, Blue Line Cafe.”

“Otis-” the man shook his head after releasing her hand. “Brian. It’s definitely Brian. Zvonecek. And Brett did not say-”

“And let’s just stop that there,” the oldest one cut him off, slapping Brian a little harder than ‘affectionately’ on the back as he came to stand next to him. He had quaffed red hair and a classic handlebar mustache. He held out his other hand to Claire. “Randy McHolland. Mouch. And this is Joe Cruz and Chris Herrmann.”

After introductions were made, the men volunteered to carry in the food and Claire was all too eager for the assistance. Joe dragged Brian away to the cargo area and took the crates. Randy called out he was getting the coffee from the passenger seat.

“And I’ve got the pretty lady,” Chris smiled and offered Claire his arm. Despite the shiny band on his finger, she knew he was being friendly in a mid-western way. 

“Ah, you’re making me blush,” Claire gave him an ear-to-ear grin and elbowed him with the arm she was linked with. Chris only chuckled as he led her through the garage behind Brian and Joe yelling out “chow’s here” down the hallway. When Chris and Claire brought up the rear making it into the Common Room to see a small crowd of firefighters mobbing the kitchen island where the men placed the crates complaining how hungry they were. 

Brett zeroed in on the coffee container Randy was holding and squealed. She jogged over and quickly took it from him to pour herself a cup. Another woman in an EMT uniform - presumably Brett’s partner, Chilli - went around grabbing the sugar, milk, and creamer. 

“Alright, alright, you mongrels,” Chris shouted as they entered, drawing the men’s attention. He walked them up to the counter, gently swatting at people to part the way until he stopped between the two crates. “This lovely woman is Claire Reagan, co-owner of the Blue Line Cafe. Let’s show her a warm 51 welcome.”

“So pull out your wallets and don’t forget to tip,” a commanding voice came from behind them as a tall, barrel-chested man walked in. As the men embarrassingly scrambled back out of the room to get their wallets, the man walked up and held out his hand. “Wallace Boden.”

“Nice to meet you, Chief.” Claire warmly smiled. It took her a second to unpack a crate and find the box labeled ‘Chief’. She held it out to him. When he saw the receipt, he silently raised an eyebrow. 

“Menu mentioned a discount but I didn’t think that much.” She could see the unasked question in his eye as he pulled out his wallet. 

“That 15% you guys don’t pay is a thank you. When regular people pay, 15% of that order is reserved for donation - widows and orphans funds for fire and police, as well as several vertern organizations.”

“That’s a big heart you have there, Miss Reagan.” Wallace nodded approvingly as he handed her cash.

“Claire, please. And it’s the absolute least I could do for you guys.”

Now that people were flooding back in, she began picking up boxes and reading off the names. Everyone had ordered sandwiches - each one with different meats, fillings, and spreads - except for Joe’s  Baja Fish Tacos with chipotle mango sauce, the Grilled  Thai Chicken Satay with Peanut Sauce for the only female firefighter Dawson, and the Balsamic Chicken Salad with Lemon Quinoa for the bubbly Brett. Brian (or Otis as the crew had all but shouted) was so eager to grab the two large boxes of House Fires - a blend of russet and sweet potatoes - when Claire spotted him lingering about and called him over to help. He precariously balanced the flight of  the 9 House Sauces - Sweet & Spicy;  Béchamel Mustard; Sriracha Ranch; Chipotle aioli; Avocado Cilantro Creme; Apricot Sage; Cherry Pepper; Lemon Herb; House Ketchup - on top of the boxes. And one point he faltered a bit and Matt, the Lieutenant for Truck 81, hopped up and took it from him. 

Claire was more than happy to clean up as the boys stuffed their faces, but Randy (again the men corrected his name to Mouch) told Claire to grab a cup of her coffee and pull up a seat. Otis was more than happy to give up his seat, but Joe clapped his hand on the man’s shoulder to hold him down. The guys chuckled and Capp gave up his seat next to Lt. Severide to move over to the couches. 

While they ate, the Truck guys told a story about a call they got earlier this week about how a whole street blocked off the road to a house fire. It was an alleged drug den and the residents wanted it gone. While Casey ‘borrowed’ a truck and bumper-cared vehicles out of the way, Patterson, the new Lt. for Squad 3, plowed through the vehicles on the other side of the street. Otis and Dawson tried to evacuate an old man from next door, but the guy kept refusing to leave. The drug den’s roof caved into the old man’s house and knocked Otis, Dawson, and the old man across the room. Took them a second to catch their breath, but Dawson carried him down and out before the fire could spread. 

“Close one,” Claire said over the rim of her cup. “Hell of a call.”

“Miserable human beings,” Herrmann grumbled. He was about to say more but some of the guys waved him off. 

“Okay, this is not how we make friends,” Gabby chuckled. “Yes, some calls are awful, but what about that call - Herrmann was stuck inside a house fire rescuing a baby. He rolled out a window, hanging on sideways with the boy tucked under his arm. Guys put up a ladder and Serveride gets the baby, but Chris is still hanging out there. Gets down in time to calm down the dad who starts freaking out.  _ That’s _ heroics.”

“Alright, alright,” Herrmann waved off Claire’s smile as he stood up to grab himself another cup of coffee. “How ‘bout weird, huh? What about Brett and Mills’ call with the - the guy answered the door with that fork thing in his eye, huh? Cool as a cucumber, talking about how he shoved half a corn dog down his friend’s throat.”

Brett visibly shuddered at the memory. “UH, gross. Don’t remind me.”

“Wait, hold on,” Claire sat up straighter in her chair. “What happened?”

“Band practice,” Brett said. “Dumb insulted Dumber. Dumber shoved the corn dog down Dumber’s throat and got a tuning fork to the eye for his trouble. Had no clue it was there because of the shock.”

“And I thought New York was crazy,” Claire shook her head.

“Speaking of,” Gabby said, leaning forward. “What’s the story?”

“Story?”

“Yeah, we’ve been spit-balling theories back and forth since Brett told us about the cafe this morning. You’re from New York-”

“Brooklyn, Bay Ridge,” Claire nodded. She didn’t know where this was going but she was willing to go with it. “Moved about five months ago.”

“Why’d you name it ‘The Blue Line’?” Gabby held up her wrist to show the blank paracord band with a thin blue cord running through the middle. “My brother, Antonio, is a detective for the CPD. Knew what you were about when I saw your logo.”

Claire chuckled. “Service is literally in the blood. Come from a Blue Blooded family of Marines turned NYPD. Or with my sisters, an Assistant District Attorney and a trauma nurse. That particular gene must’ve skipped me so I figured the best way to honor them is to open up shop and spread the love.”

“If you already had a shop in New York, why not stay?” Otis didn’t notice the smile falter on Claire’s face or the way her fingers twitched around her mug. “What made you move from the Big Apple to the Windy City?”

“It’s a - uh,” she kept her eyes on her drink and scratched her eyebrow. “It’s a long story.”

Otis opened his mouth to say more. Boden, ever observant, was about to call him off when the alarm overhead went off and dispatch called out Truck, Squad, and Ambulance to a structure fire. 

“Story for another time then,” Mouch covered smoothly, patting the arm rests on the chair as he got up. He gave Claire a wink as he walked out. She could only subtly nod her head in thanks before he left. 

The guys rushed to clean up their trash as they called out their goodbyes and thanks before they, too, ran out the doors. 

“Be holding you to that, Reagan!” Hermann shouted, walking backwards to give her a mock salute. “First drink at Molly’s - on the house!”

“I hope you know you’ve just increased your workload,” Casey chuckled as he left. “Never make friends with firemen.”

Claire shook her head as she watched the engines and ambulance roll out of the open door to the garage. 

“Me, too,” she sighed, looking around the well lived-in Common Room. She could see herself falling for these loud and proud men and women if she wasn’t careful. “Me, too.”

She came out here for a change, to get away from the heartache and inevitable loss that was inseparable from first responders. Maybe it would be okay. But maybe, trouble was just waiting around the corner. 


	3. Red Eye

Gabriela Dawson was the first customer of the day. Javi was setting up the front room while Claire and Dom prepped food in the back. It was a cold, early October morning - cold enough for Gabby to be in a beanie and wrapped in a jacket. Javi looked over his shoulder a couple times before unlocking the front door and ushering the woman in.

“We open in a couple minutes anyway,” Javi said, stretching up on his tip-toes to hold the bell over the door so it wouldn’t jingle. “Might as well wait where it's warm.”

“Thanks,” Gabby smiled, rubbing her hands together. “Gabby Dawson.”

“Javier Olivos,” he smiled back. He waved his hand around the front room. “Sit anywhere you like. I’ve just got to finish setting up then I’ll get your order started.”

“Yeah, no, take your time.” Gabby waved him off. “I’m early. Just ignore me.”

“Hard to do,” he chuckled before getting back to work. 

Gabby took the time to wander around the cafe and look over the posters, prints, and pictures on the wall. When she got to the wall of flags, she stopped in front of the memorial shadow boxes. Two of the men dressed in their NYPD blues - one photo clearly older than the other - and the third was in a white military uniform with two gold bands and a golden star on his shoulder lapels. Each box was topped with a triangular flag and inside was filled with their badges, ribbons, pins, and matte black name plate with their names etched in silver. 

The one that caught her eye was the young officer with the name ‘Reagan’. His nameplate read -  _ Joseph Conor Reagan; NYPD Detective 1st Grade; 06 June 1977 - 15 May 2009 _ . Beside the plate and underneath the photo was a small, frayed card with John Donne’s ‘No Man is an Island’ poem. 

“Reagan,” Gabby whispered. She backed away from the shadow box to look around until she found a photo of Claire in a modest emerald green evening gown, her hair and makeup perfectly immaculate, caught mid-laugh. Her eyes and nose wrinkling slightly as she looked up at the smiling man standing arm-in-arm beside her. He was dressed in the same NYPD dress blues from his memorial picture. 

Same last name. NYPD cop - presumably killed in action. Opens up a cafe in memorial. But why Chicago? And after six years? 

“Dawson?” A surprised voice called out behind Gabby. When she turned, she saw Claire carrying two baking trays filled with goodies. She smiled. “The puppy let you in?”

Gabby laughed. It was a fitting description for the young man. Hearing his nickname, he shot Claire a dopey grin over his shoulder as he unlocked the front door. “Yeah, he did. I’m not in the way, am I?”

“Nope,” Claire popped the ‘p’ as she placed the trays on the counter. “Javi, fill up the displays? Now, here or to-go, Dawson?”

“Gabby, please,” she said, stepping up to the counter. “For here - I’ve got a breakfast date. We’ll start with one large  _ Red Eye _ and a, uh….” She blew out a large breath of air and drummed on the tile. “And a, uh…a medium…”

Claire smirked and tilted her head, asking softly, “How far long?”

“What?” Gabby snapped out of reading the overhead menu. She clenched her hand and found it was already resting on her lower abdomen. She glanced down then back up at Claire. “How...how did you-”

“Hand on the stomach, soft strokes. Looking everywhere but the caffeine board when I have it on good authority you are a junkie for the java juice.” Claire shrugged as she reached for a medium sized cup. “How far along?”

“Uh, wow, okay.” Gabby chuckled. She rubbed her stomach again before placing her hands in her coat pockets. “A couple weeks. Only just found out myself a little while ago.”

“Tell me about it. Nausea? Insomnia? Anxiety? Heartburn?”

“All but the heartburn,” Gabby nodded. “Not yet, anyway. What with my job - finally finding my footing and actually being a part of the team - not to mention telling Matt-”

“Lt. Casey?” 

“Uh, yeah. He is - was - is? We were engaged then we split and now-” She shook her head. “I don’t know. We both want this but it's just ‘the  _ how’ _ we’re trying to figure out. The logistics of everything, you know?”

“Tall order,” Claire sympathized. She held up a water glass and a mug. “The only question is - cold or hot?”

“Hot.”

Claire took a jar of dried green herbs labeled ‘Lemon Balm’ from a shelf behind her. She placed two tablespoons in an infuser ball in the cup and held it under the boiling water spicket. She let it defuse off to the side.

Claire grabbed a large mug and began to put together the  _ Red Eye _ . “So, Matt is a strong espresso, all black kind of guy?”

“Matt? God no, he loves his frothy milk. More sugar, the better.” She pointed to the cup Claire was making. “That’s for ‘Tonio, my older brother.”

“The cop,” Claire nodded, remembering Gabby had said something about it last night.

“Yeah. He’s a detective for the Intelligence Unit - District 21 right down the road.”

“Fancy man with a fancy title like that.”

“Makes him feel important,” Gabby jokingly mocked with a shrug. “Someone’s gotta do it. Since he’s running late, I’m gonna order for the both of us and he’s gonna have to deal with it. He’ll have a BLT with a fried egg on honey whole wheat. And….I’ll have the scramble bowl.”

“Since it’s a Dom’s Daily, it’ll probably be sweet potato and avocado. Anything to add or take away?”

“Nope, all good.” Claire wrote the ticket up and stuck it to the hatch window. When she came back, she spooned out the defuser ball and slid Gabby both mugs. “So.”

“So?” Clarie raised her eyebrow.

“You gonna answer the question from last night?”

“Which one?” Claire leaned over a display case and rapped on the glass to get Javi’s attention. “Take over?”

“A break already, Claire?” Javi tsked as he stood up from writing the pastry names on the case. He capped the pen and walked around the counter. “Some boss.”

She swatted at him with a tea towel from her apron as he passed and he laughed. He had enough humility to fake a wince. Claire gestured to a table and Gabby sat down. 

“And what question would that be, Gabby?”

“Why the big move? Chicago’s not exactly New York City.”

“New York had too much…..history. Needed a change of scenery. Some time away.”

“That history have anything to do with him?” Gabby nodded behind Claire to the memorial wall. “Noticed his name was Reagan.”

Gabby had a feeling he might have been her late husband; no wedding band on her left hand could mean she took it off. If he died in 2009, that was enough time to mourn. Dr. Manning at Chicago Med took off her band nearly a year after her husband was killed.

“Yeah.” Claire got a soft, faded look in her eyes as she glanced behind her at the memorial. 

Gabby gave her a minute seeing she was someone grieving a close loss. Despite the distance of time, loss was still loss. Claire blinked rapidly a couple times and looked away. When she looked back at Gabby, she had a soft smile on her lips but her eyes were less vibrant. More haunted.

“My twin brother, Joe. He was, ah, killed in the line of duty.”

Gabby knew no words could comfort her so she simply reached over the table and squeezed Claire’s hand. Claire squeezed back and smiled.

“It was Joe who invested with me for my first bakery in New York. Came to all the bank appointments with me, contractors. I sometimes had to go to his precinct and get him to sign some stuff.” She gave a watery laugh. “The other detectives thought I was serving him with divorce papers because he’d huff and puff.” 

“So you set up shop in his honor. That’s admirable.” Gabby wanted to say more but her phone pinged with a new message. Antonio got called in on a case and can’t make it to breakfast. Gabby groaned under her breath and Claire chuckled. 

“I’ve made that face before. Fancy job called?”

“Anyway I can get those to go?” Pointing at the kitchen hatch where Dominic was about to plate their food.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

Since the Blue Line was only a couple minutes away from 21st, Gabby beat Antonio to work. She talked with Sgt. Platt for a minute before sitting on a bench to wait. The woman was already getting swarmed with requests at her desk and didn’t need another body clogging up space. Officer Ruzek walked in with Antonio, both of them laughing about something the other had said.

“‘Tonio!” Gabby called out, standing up from the bench. Both men turned and walked back to her. She shoved Antonio’s take-away box at him after they broke apart so she could hug Adam.

“Dios mío,” Antonio muttered when he lifted the top off the box. “What is this?”

“Heaven by the smell of it,” Adam began drooling, pushing in against Antonio to lean over the box. “If you don’t want it-”

Antonio shoved him when Adam  jokingly attempted to steal it. “It’s too bad you’re an only child.”

“You’re folk adopting?” Adam asked, winking. He touched Gabby’s arm before walking backwards to the stairs to the unit. 

“Here, try this,” Gabby took away his cheap bodega coffee and replaced it with a Blue Line take-away. “You’ll thank me.”

Antonio glared but went along with it. He had to bite back an inappropriate groan after sipping the coffee. Gabby gave him a knowing smirk, bit her lip, and nodded her head.

“I know right?! This place is like magic.”

“How much did this put you out, woman?” Antonio took out the BLT half-wrapped in the day’s  _ NY Times _ paper. “Something this good ain’t cheap.”

“This is. Especially for first responders - 15% discount, good.”

“What’s the name?” Gabby was able to decipher around a mouthful of food. She rolled her eyes and turned his coffee cup around so he could see the stamped logo. Antonio chuckled. “Name like that, no wonder he’s cop friendly.” 

“ _ She _ ,” Gabby pointedly corrected with a smile. “And she’s blue blooded. From a big cop family in New York.”

Jay jogged down the steps to open up the gate and popped his head out. “‘Tonio, man. Gotta go; Voight’s looking for you.” He bowed his head to acknowledge Gabby before he headed back.

“Service is in the blood,” Antonio kissed Gabby on the cheek. He walked backwards to the stairs leading up to Intelligence so he could salute her with his cup and what’s left of his food. He called out to the front desk, “Buzz me up.”

Before Gabby could leave, Platt called her up to the desk. She’s not one to miss a conversation in her lobby and heard the two raving about the food, but her ears especially picked up on the discount.

“Mouch told me about this place last night. It as good as he says it is?” She knew her man tended to embellish the quality of food at times. As long as it was edible and cheap, he was happy.

Gabby smiled and pulled out a business card from her jacket pocket she had grabbed this morning. Slid it over the desk and tapped it. “Even better, Sarge.”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The unit had no active cases so they were catching up on paperwork that evening. Well, nearly all of them. Adam had spent the past fifteen minutes leaning back in his chair, boots on his desk, tossing a stress ball into the air and catching it. The only ones not subjected to the antics were Jay and Erin were on their way back from meeting with one of the Assistant State’s Attorney. Like always, Voight was left in peace in his office. 

“Is anyone else starving?” Adam called out.

“Man, if you don’t quit it with that ball I’m gonna feed it to you,” Kevin muttered, tapping his pencil. 

“C’mon, I haven’t had anything but a power bar from the vending machine.”

“So shut up and grab something to eat,” Al snatched the ball from Adam as he walked by. He opened his desk drawer and tossed it in there with the other miscellaneous items Adam tended to annoyingly fiddle with when he was bored.

“Hey, Tonio,” Adam stood up from his desk. He walked around Kevin’s desk and sat on the edge, picking up a paperweight from the desk. “What’s the name of that place Gabby got the sandwich from? Smelled fantastic.”

Without looking away from the report he was typing, he turned the long empty coffee cup around to show Adam the cafe’s logo. “Don’t know where, though. Gave Platt a card.”

“Perfect,” Adam groaned, pushing off Kevin’s desk and tossing the paper weight back at him. He replaced his gun in it’s hip-holster, grabbed his coat from the back of his chair and put it on. “Guys want anything?”

“Refill,” Antonio quickly said, shaking the empty cup. “Red Eye.”

“Disgusting. Anything else?” He looked around the squad room with his arms open.

“I don’t order blind, Kid.” Al said. “Call when you get there.”

“Ditto.” Kevin held up his pencil in agreement.

“Copy that.” Adam jogged down the stairs and out the gate. He waited a second for Platt to shoo away a pair of patrolmen before approaching the desk. 

“Hey, Sarge.” He smiled but her glare wiped it away. “Right. You got the card to a coffee shop - Blue Line, or something? Gabby dropped it off this morning.”

“What’s it to you?”

“Dawson said the food was amazing but he doesn’t know where his sister got it. C’mon, Sarge, have pity. I’m starving here.”

“Oh, you’re starving. Shame on me, Officer. I hadn’t realized I was speaking with a child on a strict feeding schedule.” She shuffled some paperwork in front of her as a subtle dismissal.

He was silent a minute, tapping his foot and looking Platt over. She was playing with him. “Alright, what do ya want? You gotta want something or else you wouldn’t be jerking me around”

“World peace. Bangers to stop shooting at each other - or at least improve their aim. Better parking spot. Gel inserts that don’t make me feel like i’m walking in goo-”

“Sarge-”

“And pretty boys who won’t interrupt me when I’m negotiating with them.” She pulled out a black business card with white lettering and a thin blue line at the top. She held it between her fingers and snatched it back when Adam made a grab for it. “This don’t come cheap if it’s as good as everyone’s telling me it is. I want coffee and dinner.”

“How would I know what you’d like?” Adam stupidly asked as she was handing the card to him. She pulled it back.

“That’s what a phone is for, Moron. Text me a picture of the menu.”

“You got it, Sarge.” Adam waited until the card was in his hand before pushing off from the counter. He held up the card and waved it like a victory flag as he jogged down the stairs to the front door.

“Little shit,” Trudy muttered, glaring at the door as it swung shut. 


	4. Burzek

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm thinking Mondays are update days...? We'll see were life fucks up

Adam pulled up to  _ The Blue Line Cafe _ a minute after 6pm. He wasn’t one to judge a place by looks - more than once he’s prowling around grubby looking food trucks and hole-in-the-wall joints for the best food in town - but he was happy to see a patrol car and a sedan with a CFD sticker in the rear windshield. If the place kept good company and offered a generous discount, who was he to deny his service?

Adam walks in and his approval shoots up. Not only was it a cop place, it was a shrine to New York - photos, posters, and prints of iconic spots, sports, and music. Even better, it was a family joint. Everywhere he looked, he could see the memories hanging all round to show customers who exactly they were dealing with. 

“Hey, welcome in,” a cheerful voice called out from the counter. 

What pulled him in were her fine, bright eyes and thick lashes. Her golden brown hair was pulled away from her face into a half-hearted twist, the fly aways framing her face only enhanced her sharp cheekbones. The blush of exertion and her soft lips stood out against her creamy skin. Her smile widened as he walked forward. 

“Now what can I get for you, Hutch?”

Adam laughed, pulling off his sunglasses. He held out his hand as he came up to the counter. “Adam Ruzek.”

“Claire Reagan. Need a minute?”

“That obvious?” Adam glanced up from studying the menu. He pulled out his phone and snapped a picture to send off. “What’d you suggest?”

“You’re asking the wrong person, Ruzek,” she chuckled. “Normally, I’d recommend everything but you just missed the cut off. We stop serving from the kitchen at 6pm. Beyond that, anything on display is up for grabs.”

“Oh no, no, no, no, no,” Adam groaned, pushed against the counter. “No, c’mon, Reagan. You gotta help me out here. I gotta whole unit and a bull dog of a desk Sergeant waiting for me to come back with this  _ spectacular  _ food. Whole place is talkn’ about you.”

“Oh, really?” She teasingly raised her eyebrow, one hand on her hip the other on the counter. There was a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “Let me see your badge.”

“What?” 

She rolled her eyes and held out her hand. “Badge.”

He dug around his jacket pocket for his badge and district ID card. Maybe it was for discount verification? Who the hell goes into a place faking being a cop for a discount? She looked it over for a couple of seconds before looking up.

“Officer Adam Ruzek of the 21st District, Intelligence Unit.” She handed the card back to him. “You got a Detective Dawson in there?”

“Antonio? Yeah!” Adam could see this swinging in his favor and perked up. “Yeah, he’s the one who recommended this place. His sister, Gabby, a firefighter with 51 actually, dropped by with breakfast and he could  _ not  _ stop talking about it. Said it was the best he’s ever had, and wow, that coffee-” 

“ _ Dios mio _ , Claire,” Javi gave an exaggerated sigh as he cleaned up one of the tables behind them. “Give the guy what he wants so he can stop talking.”

When Adam turned, about to tell the kid off, Javi shot him a quick wink before Claire caught him. Adam pointed at the kid. “Yes. Listen to him. Shut me up.”

“Trust me, Claire,” one of the older patrol officers sitting off to the side said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Kid’s a loud mouth. He’ll stake out the counter and pester anyone who’ll come in.” He waved at her with the napkin. “Easier to give in, sweetheart, to get rid of him.”

“He’s gotta point,” Adam smiled. He held his hands together to beg, bringing them up to his face so she would see his wide, pleading eyes.

Claire huffed, pulling out her receipt tickets. “What’ll it be?”

“Yes, thank you,” He pumped his hand, clapped them together and rubbed. “Alright. Uh, me? I’ll have the, uh, seared pork belly, but without the egg, and coleslaw.”

“No pickled quail egg, got it. Keep the bacon jam, watermelon radish, and House BBQ Sauce?” Adam nodded even though he seemed a bit unsure. “Anything to drink?”

“Havana cappuccino sounds good.”

“Sweet, bold, and lightly spiced,” Claire nodded approvingly. “Person’s coffee order says a lot about them.” She wrote Adam’s name on the top of the ticket and set it aside. “Next?”

“Oh, right,” Adam pulled out his phone and scrolled through the messages. “Okay, you ready?”

For the next couple minutes, Adam read off each dinner and drink order and their name for the ticket. What really surprised him was Al’s - sweet potato and parmesan risotto with pomegranate seeds and burrata, lemon poppy seed ginger scone, and a latte with honey and house-made lavender syrup. When Claire caught the look on Adam’s face, she asked him about it. He said that as long as he’s known his partner, Adam doesn’t think he’ll ever actually pegg the guy. 

“You had my curiosity, but now you have my attention.” Clarie laughed, totaling up the order. Adam pays as Claire gathers the tickets and hands them off to Javi. “Javi, give Dom a hand? I’ll get started on the drinks.”

“You got it,” Javi nodded, sliding the tickets into the kitchen hatch before heading to the door. 

Claire expected some grumbling from Dom, of course, but she wasn’t expecting inaudible curses and sometype of kitchenware being thrown around. He storms out of the kitchen door to stare down Claire. 

Adam watched the tension travel between Claire and the mystery kitchen man. He didn’t say anything, just cocked his head to the side. Felt something was off with the guy - tall, built with definition, but his stance was anything but relaxed. Adam took an unconscious step forward, left hand going to his holster. Mystery man clocked the movement and stood up straighter. Now those hard eyes were turned on Adam and he did not like that. 

“Hey, why don’t I head back, help you out. Sound good?” Claire called out to the man. When he didn’t look at her, she called out again, “Dom? Sound good?”

Dom didn’t say anything, just kept his eye on Adam as he walked back into the kitchen. Second later, Javi came out shaking his head. Claire offered Adam a small smile and squeezed Javi’s arm as she headed back. Adam took his hand off his holster and placed them on the counter. 

“So,” Adam begins casually as Javi starts in on the drinks. “Javi, right? I’m Ruzek. That guy - Dom? - he always like that?”

“Not really, today seems worse than normal. Then again, he isn’t a people person on a ‘normal’ day anyway. Cool guys either way, just takes some time to get used to you, is all.”

“What’s his story? Guy like that has to have one.”

“Not my story to tell man even if I did know the whole thing.” Javi shrugs and starts putting the finished drinks in take-away carriers. “Have a look around. The walls would be able to tell you more than I could. Been working for him for, like, nearly two months and all I can say is that Dom is a good guy, means well, and you really shouldn’t mess with Claire.” 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------

That night, Adam walks through his front door to one of his favorite sights - his fiancee in one of his old band t-shirts and flannel bottoms, yelling at the bad decisions of one of the girls on her reality TV show around a mouthful of popcorn she’d been stuffing her face with. He couldn’t help but smile.

“Hey babe,” Adam greeted, shrugging out of his coat and tossing it on the kitchen table.

“Hey!” She set aside her popcorn bowl and jumped up to greet him. She paused to dust herself off from the crumbs before kissing Adam. “Haven’t seen you all day.”

“Guess absence doesn’t actually make the heart grow fonder,” Adam chuckled. Kim rolled her eyes and gave him another kiss. When she pulled away, he pulled her back. “One more.” When she did, he whispered against her lips, “One more.”

She gave him another before pushing him away with a giggle. He groaned as she headed back to the couch. “You eat yet? I can make you something.”

“Nah, grabbed something before I left the station.” He added his badge and holstered gun to his coat on the table. He sprawled out on the couch beside Kim with an exaggerated sigh, his arm flopping over the popcorn bowl. She gave him a placating kiss on the forehead and she lifted him hand by the thumb and dumped it on his own lap. “How’s your day?”

“You know, the usual. Cuffed two dumbassess as they tried to rob an armored vehicle Station 51 was working on. Serveride tossed out a box of gold bricks - like,  _ actual _ gold bricks - trying to get a guy out of the back. Should have seen Boden when the guys rushed him. Their buddy caused the crash, rammed his sedan into it  _ Mad Max  _ style.”

“ _ Mad Max _ , huh?” Adam chuckled. “Moron.”

“That’s not what’s bothering me about today, though. Roman and I may have witnessed a possible domestic on our meal. I say possible because nothing actually happened - well, not yet, anyway. Husband was tense, throwing off this weird vibe, you know? Wife was jumpy, trying to calm him down.”

“What’d you do?”

“Nothing to do,” Kim shrugged. “I wanted to slip the woman my card but Roman thought it would make the situation worse. And he was right; we’ve seen that happen before. Couple left a little while after that so…..”

“Hey, you and Roman, you guys eat at that cop cafe -  _ The Blue Line _ ?”

“No, but I saw Platt going to town on a sandwich on my way out. Roman asked what she was eating but she only turned her cup around. Logo said  _ Blue Line _ and if it’s got Platt eating like that it’s definitely worth a go.”

“Think you and Roman can take your meal there tomorrow?” Adam tried to ask her as casually as he could but Kim could hear the tick in his voice. Plus, he was choosing to watch trash TV rather than look at her.

Kim pushed the ‘mute’ button on the clicker and turned to face Adam. “What’s up?”

“ _ Blue Line  _ came highly recommended so I went out there to pick up dinner for the unit.”

“And you didn’t pick me up anything?” Kim jokingly raised her eyebrow. Adam playfully shoved at her with his elbow. 

“And make Roman jealous? Didn’t want you dealing with his bitch fit.” Adam knew he stuck his foot in his mouth because Kim’s mouth took on the same aggravated straight line it did whenever he insulted her partner. Before she could tell him off, again, Adam continued. “Anyway, Claire, the owner, comes from a big cop family in New York. There’s pictures of them all over the walls. Real nice lady, sweetest laugh-”

“Should I be jealous?”

“No, but I think someone was.” Adam rubbed his forehead trying to put this vague feeling into words. “The husband for your meal call, you looked at him and knew - just  _ knew  _ \- he was gonna cause trouble. Don’t know how or when, he’s just gonna, right? I was thinking the same thing when I walked in.”

“Trouble with the owner?” 

“No, the cook. Dom.”

“What’s his connection”

“Boyfriend, maybe? No ring, but there are photos of the two everywhere. Birthdays, parties, with each other’s families. They co-own the place but they’re more than just business partners.”

“So what’re you thinking?”

“ _ I’m thinking _ there's definitely something going on there like yours and Roman’s couple. Guy just seemed off, the way he was just standing there staring Claire down after throwing some stuff around the kitchen. It wasn’t thinking when I put my hand on my holster; it was just a small movement, no one saw, but this guy clocked it real quick. Moved from Claire to me and......I don’t know. Guy just seems off. Claire pulled the kid - Javi, busboy or something - out and went in to finish the order.”

“Jesus, sounds intense.” Kim began running her fingers through Adam’s hair, stroking the strands out of his face. Her brow was furrowed in thought. “You’re thinking something might happen.”

“I  _ know  _ something might. Like I said, just don’t know when.”

“And you’re worried about her.”

“Yeah,” Adam sighed, shifting on the couch so he could lean his head in the crook of her neck. 

“How ‘bout I check it out? Yeah, Roman and I have been looking for a good meal stop. Why not kill two birds with one stone - try out the food and size up your guy. See what’s what.”

“That,” Adam turned his head in to kiss her neck, “is why I love you.”

“That’s why, huh?” Kim giggled. “Out of all the wonderful things about me, you choose my ability to place food on the same priority level as civil service. Wow, geez, I feel the love.”

“That’s not all you’ll be feeling.” Adam leans in to cover her lips with him, each sharing a matching smile. 

“Oh really?” She nipped at his bottom lip. 

She leaned further into and pressed her mouth roughly against his. Adam moaned as she trailed her fingers up his back, feeling the curves of his body. Adam’s hands responded by drifting lower to her waist and slipping under her shirt. Kim grabbed his wrists before they could go any further. When he pulled away from her lips to pout, Kim only smiled and yanked him off the couch with her. 

“Bedroom. Now.”


	5. Invite to Molly's

Over the next week, Claire started to get to know the first responders of the district. She’d gained a couple of meal time regulars from the patrolmen, Ruzek’s fiance Kim and her partner were one of the better tippers. It seemed the only people she hadn’t met were Detective Olinsky and Sergeant Voight, both of the Intelligence Unit her patrons kept talking about. Whether the talk was positive or negative depended on the day and general mood of the patrolmen. She’d seen Olinsky in passing once when making a delivery to Platt, but she honestly thought he was someone’s bum uncle with a grey handlebar moustache and flat irish cabbie hat until Platt clued her in otherwise. 

Everything seemed to be on the up-and-up. Everything except Dom. 

He was starting to spiral. She could see the insomnia was back with the dark circles under his restless eyes, always darting around at the slightest sound. He was becoming increasingly irritable and would lash out when something was out of place or off schedule. When he wasn’t anxious or hostile, he would lurch into a depressive emotional detachment that had him staring into space.

She kept Javi in the front room and away from the kitchen as the week went on. She tried covering it up saying Javi needed more customer experience but she could tell he knew something was up. He could see Dom deteriorating. They all went to the same church - Holy Family Catholic Church on Roosevelt - and without fail he’s seen both Claire and Dom in the pews every Sunday morning. That’s actually how they had met; Claire had struck up a conversation with Javier’s Abulea and before he knew it he had a job interview for the next morning. From then on, they all rode into work after Mass.

This Sunday was the only exception. Dom wasn’t there. By the time Claire and Javi arrived, Dom had finished all the prep-work for the kitchen and front room. Claire found him in the dark office, sitting at the desk and staring at the wall with a full cup of cold coffee in his hands. Javi doesn’t know everything about Dom, but despite the cool exterior Javi felt the two had been getting closer over the past couple months. He was concerned about the man but wasn’t sure how to go about letting the man know.

He said as much to Claire that morning as he pulled a large box from the rear hatch of her car. Claire smiled and rubbed his back as they walked in.

“Dom will be back to his cheerfully grumpy self in no time,” Claire promised. “Don’t worry.”

Javi dropped the box in the office and held out a letter opener to Claire. “Late night Amazon spending?”

“Something like that.” Claire reached into the box and pulled out two shirts - one black, one white - to lay out on the desk. “Uniforms came in.”

On the left breast of the black shirt was the white outline of the five-pointed Chicago police badge with three coffee beans in the center. A navy blue line ran across the lower half of the badge and the cafe’s name was stenciled in white lettering. On the white shirt, the logo kept the black badge outline except the coffee beans were outlined in red and the blue line was lighter to match CPD colors. 

“But, wait,” Claire smiled broadly, gripping the shirts to flip them over. “There’s more!”

On the back of each shirt would be their last names - white lettering on the black and red on the white. She dug around the box some more to pull out two baseball caps. The black cap had the cafe’s name in white lettering on the left side of the bill and a blue strap in the back. On the white cap, it was with red lettering and a light blue strap.

“Mix, match, and have at it!” She tossed both caps at him to dig around the box for Javi’s four shirts, two in each color. “Wear some form of this whenever you’re on. If you hate, humor me and at least wear the hat while you’re making deliveries.”

“Nah, Ms. Reagan” Javi grinned, pulling the navy blue cap over his head. “Not exactly the Cubs, but it’ll do.”

Claire rolled her eyes, muttering sarcastically, “ _ It’ll do _ .” She pulled out her own shirt and snapped it at him. “Get changed, slacker. Those machines aren’t gonna prep themselves.”

The morning was like any other with Javi prepping the front room while Claire and Dom worked in the kitchen. Claire switched on the music but Dom quickly walked over and switched it off. She tried to make small talk but he would grunt and grumble noncommittal in response, keeping his head down and hyper-focused on what he was working on. She glanced over at Gunner - he typically stayed in the doorway of the office to keep an eye on things and out of the way, but now he was on his feet next to Dom and all times. 

That wasn’t a good sign.

The silence got to the point where Claire felt as if she was suffocating and had to leave the kitchen. She and Javi stocked the displays and tried to keep the mood light as best they could but they both could still feel the tension in the small cafe. Claire hopped her reassurances to Javi were anything but false hope. Dom has come too damn far to relapse now. 

Claire was still deep in her thoughts over Dom that she didn’t notice when the bell chimed above the door. Gabby and Matt walked in expecting Claire’s typical greeting but they got silence in return. They shared a look between them as they approached the counter Claire was leaning on, staring off into the kitchen hatch. Matt glanced around and caught Javi’s eye. He gestured to Claire and furrowed his eyebrows. Javi shook his head and nodded towards the hatch. Matt looked in to see Dom chopping something. He tapped Gabby’s arm to urge her up to the counter.

“Earth to Claire,” Gabby called out softly, reaching out to gently prod the woman’s crossed arms. “Come in Claire.”

She seemed to yank herself from her thoughts as she shook her head. “Yes, good morning, hi,” She gave them a small smile as she turned to face the couple. What she noticed first was Dawson’s new uniform - a white short-sleeved dress shirt, patches on either sleeve, a CFD badge on the left breast and her name tag on the right. “That’s a new look.”

“So is yours,” Gabby chuckled, gesturing to Claire’s own uniform change. “You don’t have your own baby news do you?”

Matt saw something flicker in Claire’s eyes but it went as quickly as it came before she laughed it off. “Funny. I take it you’re on modified assignment?”

“Yeah, Severide got me in with the Arson Unit. Looks like I’ll be a paper-pusher till this little guy decides to make an appearance.”

“I’ll take you fighting papercuts over three alarm fires any day,” Matt smiled cheekily, leaning down to peck her cheek. 

“Usual?” Claire asked, already writing the ticket up. Javi came around to fix up the drinks as Claire put the ticket in the kitchen hatch. When she came back, Gabby was drumming her fingers on the counter.

“You have any plans tonight?” Claire gave her a bemused look, raising her eyebrow. “If not, you should come by Molly’s.”

“Who’s Molly?” Javi asked before Claire could. He walked over and deposited their take-away cups - an herbal tea for Gabby and a dark roast latte with a hint of cinnamon and nutmeg powder for Matt.

“Molly’s is a  _ what _ ,” Matt smiled.

“Ask Herrm and he’d tell you it’s the ‘best damn refuge’ in the city,” Gabby laughed. “It’s our place - mine, Otis, and Herrmann’s.”Dom

“Where they serve cold comfort to red-blooded Americans,” Matt exaggerated Herrmann’s mid-western accent.

“So a bar?” Gabby raised her eyebrow playfully to Claire's less than enthusiastic response. “Alright, so an  _ amazing  _ bar.”

“So come have a drink with us at our  _ amazing _ bar tonight.”

“Yeah,” Matt agreed. “A bunch of us from the station, the district, grabs drinks there after our shifts. Great place to get the word out about the cafe.”

Gabby slapped his chest. “Better yet, a great place to make  _ friends _ .”

“I like making friends,” Javi leaned in, his arms crossed on the counter, smiling up at the small group. 

Claire chuckled. She bumped her hip against his to shoo him away. “Unless I’m mistaken, you’re still nineteen and have an exam tomorrow. And a bar full of rowdy firemen and cops isn’t the best place to hit the books.”

Before Matt could say something about the quality of the bar food, they turned to see Dom cursing and grumbling after banging something in the kitchen. None of the crews that have come in have actually met Domonic, only catching glimpses of him through the kitchen hatch. As friendly as Claire and Javi were, they found it odd that the man never bothered to get to know his own clients. 

Claire watched him for a moment before smiling sadly at the couple at her counter. She glanced back at Dom again. “We’ll see.”

When Matt and Gabby were leaving a couple minutes later, they shared their concerns about Dom - the escalating aggression, the skirting glances Claire gives him before making plans. They’ve seen similar situations while on calls and were just as suspicious here. 

“Maybe it’s nothing, but,” Gabby sighed, sliding out of Matt’s truck after he parked outside the arson offices. “I don’t know. I feel like it might be something.”

“So call Antonio, give him the heads up.” He leaned over the passenger seat to kiss her. “I’d like to think we’re friends, if not friendly. Better safe than sorry.”

***

Gabby texted Antonio her and Matt’s concerns after meet-and-greeting with everyone in her new office. He got the text while in the field with Ruzek. He slapped his phone in his hand a couple times before turning to Adam.

“When you were at  _ The Blue Line _ the other night, you notice anything?”

“Like what?”

“Like, I don’t know,  _ off _ . About Claire?” He glanced at Adam. “The guy in the back?”

“Dom,” Adam supplied, nodding. “Yeah, there was something off about him. Felt like a ticking time bomb. Something’s definitely up with that guy.”

“Gabby said that same thing. She’s worried about Claire.”

“I had Kim stop by on her meals the other day, now she’s making it a habit. She’ll be there this afternoon; might as well check in with her, see what’s what.”

***

That afternoon, Roman and Burgess stopped in for their usual lunch. They only needed to wave on their way in and Javi was writing up their order. Adam had given Kim the heads up Antonio was coming in that afternoon when he ran into her that morning at the station. They’ve been keeping their eyes open over the past week and have been picking up on Dom’s escalating unease. They really like Claire and don’t want anything to happen. It may be nothing but they’d prefer to know.

“While Dawson is talking to Claire,” Roman said as he sat down across from Kim after paying and picking up their drinks. “We should keep an eye on Dom. See how he reacts.”

“Got it.”

Antonio strolled in halfway through their lunch, waving at Claire as the little bell caught her attention. She gave him a warm smile and leaned against the counter as he approached. 

“ _ Antonio! ¿Volver para una recarga tan pronto? _ ”

“ _ Me estás tomando el pelo, mujer, los dos sabemos que tu café es adictivo _ ,” Antonio chuckled. “You’re Spanish becomes more beautiful every time I hear it.”

“Careful, Detective, someone might think you’re charming.” She picked up her ticket book and started scribbling. “Squad or personal?”

“Squad plus Platt,” He pulled out his wallet and thumbed through the cash he collected. “So the usual food and drink except-”

“Except Erin,” Claire nodded. She read one of the menus on the counter upside down. “Let me guess, she’ll have the…brisket bun?”

“You got.” Antonio read off a scrap of paper Erin had handed him. Over the past week, Detective Lindsey has been systematically making her way through the menu, adding and subtracting as needed but never ordering straight through. “Brioche not french bread, gruyere swiss, truffle fries, and the sauce-gravy-stuff on the side. That and whatever the hell a Highlander Grogg is. Medium.” 

“Secret family recipe,” Claire laughed. “The men of my family like to take a yearly camping trip and one wintry night my grandfather decided to contribute to whatever the hell Dom brewing. He likes to try out mixtures on my brothers when they’re trapped with nowhere to go. Pops liked the smell and, hell, it was cold so why not add a kick. He didn’t tell anyone he’d spike the coffee with his flask of Scottish brandy, of course-”

“Of course,” Antonio grinned.

“And when Dom took a sip - test out the spice and flavor balance - he nearly choked. When he was done spitting and sputtering, he was looking around the camp asking, ‘What the hell is this?’ Pops, all calm and cool, walked up and poured himself a mug. He saluted Dom with it, winked, and said, ‘Highland grogg, m’boy.’.”

“Please tell me there won’t be any actual brandy in that cup.”

“Just the bite of spice and a smooth buttery flavor to wash it down.” She cashed the detective out before ripping the ticket from her book. She was going to have Javi run the ticket to the kitchen hatch if Dom hadn’t come out of the kitchen to refill his cup. “Your ears must have been burning, we were just talking about you.”

“Oh?” Dom kept his back to them but cocked his head to signal he was listening.

“Yeah, just telling ‘Tonio about Pops messing with your coffee.”

“Which time?” Dom turned back around. He leaned against the back counter and brought his mug to his lips. He seemed calm enough until he saw who was at the counter, then his shoulders stiffened as he pushed off the counter to stand straighter just behind Claire’s shoulder. “What’s this?”

Claire held up the receipt ticket. “Unit’s got their usual lunch order except-”

“Lindsey, yeah, I got it.” Dom plucked the ticket from Claire’s fingers and leveled a cold look at Antonio. “Could’ve called it in. Save us all some time.”

“Well, now we’ve got more time to chat,” Claire brushed off the comment with a smile. 

Dom visibly stiffened. There was a tense staredown between the two Claire tried to ignore but it was hard not to when she could practically hear Dom’s teeth grinding against each other. Dom backed off the kitchen with a set jaw and a heavier step. Just after the kitchen door swings shut, it opens again - yet a German Shepard comes out and plops down as if keeping guard. Of what or whom, Antonio could guess by the way it was watching him. Whatever move Antonio made, the dog clocked it. 

“Friendly guy,” Antonio muttered. 

“He is,  _ normally _ .” Claire gave him a small smile as she turned away to make up the drinks. “Just caught him on an off day.” 

Antonio could see something was off by how she kept looking away when Dom was around and how off her tone was. Her reaction to Dom was suspicious, almost telling without, you know,  _ directly telling _ . Antonio glanced over his shoulder to where Burgess and Roman were sitting. Roman gave a subtle nod as he lifted his drink to his lips, pointedly glancing at the hatch. The guy was busy enough for Antonio to poke around.

“I noticed that tattoo on Dom’s forearm. He Navy or something?”

“SEALs, yeah,” Claire smiled proudly over her shoulder. “One minute he’s graduating from the Academy in Annapolis, next thing I know he’s calling me at the airport saying he’s off to BUD/S training in Coronado.”

“Annapolis - that’s the Naval Academy, right?” When Claire nodded, Antonio gave a low whistle. “Smart guy.”

“Smarter than me, that’s for sure,” Claire laughed. “Always has been.”

“Must’ve known each other a long time then, huh?”

“Practically since birth. Brooklyn’s a small place if you can believe it.” When she caught Antonio’s disbelieving look she shook her head. “I’m serious! Families attend the same church, his dad was in the same precinct as mine, he went to the same all-boys Catholic school as my brothers, spent every weekend at his grandparent’s place down the road from my house, yada yada yada. Need I go on?”

“No, no, you made your point. I can see the baby pictures on the walls.” His smile faltered for a second as he leaned in against the counter. “He always been like this? And don’t tell me it’s a New York thing, not when you’re Miss Bubbly.”

Claire had gotten the feeling Anotnio was fishing - he was a cop, it was hard not to on or off the job - but now the feeling was coming back. Dom likes to stay in the back so it was no wonder her budding regulars were curious about him. But after the not too subtle pissing match over God knows what between the two, Claire had a feeling where Antonio wanted to take the conversation.

“Like I said,  _ Detective _ ,” She shot him a playful smile but he could see the serious glint in her eye. “You just caught him on an off day.” She’d finished the drink orders and packaged them up in carry-out containers. As she slid them over the counter to Antonio, she leaned against it with her hip. “What about you?”

“ _ What about m _ e what?”

“You got any tattoos to tell me a little bit about you? A past life before the PD, huh?”

She’d caught onto him and now she’s switched it up. He had to give it to her, she caught on quick. He chuckled. “Know what? If you’re so curious, come out to Molly’s tonight. It’s-“ 

“It’s your sister’s bar,” Claire smiled. “She put you up to this?” 

“Why you say that?” 

“Because she and Matt were in here not five hours ago telling me the same thing.” 

“What can I say, great minds, right?” 

“Right,” she exaggerated with an eye roll. 

“That a yes?” When she wouldn’t budge, he put his hands together like he was praying and rolled onto the back of his heels to bounce slightly. He did his best to impersonate his son when begging to stay up later than his bedtime. “ _ Please, please, please _ .” 

She threw her hands up in surrender, backing away and laughing. “Okay, I’ll go if you would just stop that. God, you and Ruzek both - a bunch of children.” 

“Deal. Done.” He slapped the counter as if it made it more official.

Unfortunately, it drew Don’s attention. He saw what was happening at the counter and banged on the hatch. Dom yelled out for Javi before turning his back. Claire squeezed Javi’s arm as he passed her on the way back. Claire felt Antonio looking at her so she glanced back and attempted to smile. 

“Like I said - rough day.” 

Antonio took the drinks over to Burgess and Roman’s table as Claire helped another customer who came in. They had a brief whispered conversation about what they noticed while Antonio was talking until Javi came out with the unit’s order wrapped and boxed. 

Antonio was carefully juggling the carry-out containers and the food box as he walked backwards towards the front door. “Molly’s? Tonight? I’m holding you to that.” 

“Yes, Detective Dawson,” she rolled her eyes. 

“Antonio, please.” He smiled when she tilted her head in acknowledgment with her own soft smile. She turned back to fix a drink before she could see the last glare Dom sent Antonio through the kitchen hatch on the way out the door. 


	6. A Night at Molly's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claire spends the evening at Molly's. While she's enjoying the conversations with her new friends, one friend in particular has another idea in mind.

That night Claire sent Javier home early so she could try talking to Dom. Javi usually cleaned up the front room - Dom was anal about how  _ his  _ kitchen was cleaned - while Claire counted the deposit but tonight she gave him a free pass. He hated to say he was relieved, but she knew he couldn’t be around if she wanted anything from Dom. 

Not that it would have mattered anyway. By the time they were walking out the back and locking the doors, Dom had evaded every attempt Claire tried getting him to talk. He’d talk about the cafe but nothing more personal than that. 

“Hey,” Claire called as Dom was walking towards his Silverado. She gave him a soft smile and tilted her head to the side. “Molly’s. You and Me. Get to know the neighbors a little bit. What’d ya say?”

“Claire,” Dom sighed softly, looking away, pained. He tapped his keys against his thigh, giving Claire some indication on Dom’s state of mind, as he held open the door for Gunner. He shook his head gently.

“C’mon, Nicky,” she whined playfully. She always called him by his childhood nickname when she was being cute and wanting something. Always worked when they were kids and luckily some things never change. She hoped. “Spend the night out with me. Please?”

“Sorry,” Dom shook his head again, looking back over his shoulder to his truck. “Babe, I can’t. Not - not tonight, okay? I’m just not feeling up to the company right now.”

“Okay,” Claire’s smile faltered for a moment but she kept it on as she moved in closer to straighten his jacket. She fiddled with the zipper - zipping it up and down until the smallest smile pulled at the corner of his lips. “No Molly’s. Got it. We can bully some firefighters another night. How ‘bout I come over and burn some Kraft Mac n’ Cheese while we get through that backlog of trashy reality shows you’ve got DVR-ed.”

“Claire-”

“C’mon,” She groaned, tugging on his jacket ends harder. She moved her hands up to scratch up and down his chest lightly with her nails. “I  _ know  _ you’ve got some Real Housewives ready and waiting to binge. This love-hate thing you’ve got with Luann is something else-”

“Claire!” Dom yelled, slapping Claire’s hands off of him as if her touch burned him. His eyes were wide, chest heaving, cheeks flushed with preparation beginning to dot between his brows and on his temples. When his hand began shaking his keys, she narrowed in on his neck. His pulse was visibly thumping out of his skin. 

He took a step back holding his hands up to keep her away. “I-I can’t. I’m sorry but I just….I can’t.” He hesitated for a moment - debating on whether or not to just hightail it out of here - before stepping in and giving Claire a swift kiss on the cheek as a silent apology. “I’m sorry.”

He climbed into his truck with his head hung. She chewed on the inside of her cheek as she watched him drive off. Should she go after him and risk another outburst? She knew she shouldn’t have touched him, that was on her. She forgot and she shouldn’t have. The other half of her is wondering if she should listen to him and just let him go. He’d been building up this pressure inside of him for the past week and maybe tonight it was best to leave him be and let it explode in his own time. Safely. From a distance. 

She hadn’t made up her mind completely until she stood in front of her closet after her shower. What was one night after all? Dom knew to call her if things got bad for him - he’d done it before. Even Gunner had a push button he could tap in case Dom was too far gone to reach out. 

Claire changed into a heather grey short sleeve she tucked into dark wash jeans. She finished up by tying back her hair in a low messy bun at the nape of her neck using a red scarf with white floral patterns. Minimal touch-up on her makeup and she was good to go. 

***

It seemed like she wasn’t the only one invited to Molly’s for a drink after a tough day. She walked in and was instantly lost in a sea of first responders, the majority of whom were in civilian clothes but some were still in their various uniforms. She was clearly in the right place even without the help of the sign out front. 

“Ey, Reagan!” A booming voice called out from her left. Otis was behind the bar with his hands cupped to amplify his voice. He jerked his head towards the high-tops in the back where a small group of familiar PD and FD faces were gathered around. 

She smiled her thanks and gave a small wave as she made her way through the crowd. She smiled, waved, and shook hands with the various Blue Line regulars she passed. She was momentarily stopped by a patrolman who lightly grabbed her arm to steer her towards his table. She was more than happy to have the older man praise her coffee to his younger “hipster” partner who nagged him whenever he enjoyed a cup. 

“It increases your risk of-”

“ _ Of heart disease _ , yeah, yeah,” the older man waved off the young man, who in turn rolled his eyes in annoyance. It seemed this was a common argument between the two.

“I will say Sgt. Anderson’s oder is one of the healthiest options we have,” Claire defended.

“John,” Anderson gently chided, he wagged his finger at her before turning it on his partner. “What’d I tell ya, Miller? Can’t go wrong with straight black coffee.”

“ _ But _ ,” Claire hedged, putting her hand on Anderson’s arm. “Miller’s also right - you drink too much coffee. Adding some Ceylon cinnamon can help lower blood glucose, cholesterol and triglycerides. Since I know you love your sweets, dark cocoa powder does the same.”

Anderson threw his hands up in triumph. “Add all the powders you want, doll, but all I’m hearin’ is that I can still drink coffee.”

Miller and Claire shared an equally exasperated look before smirking. She shook her head and squeezed Anderson’s arm. “Have a nice night, gentlemen.”

“Stealn’ my customers, Claire?” Gabby chuckled. She pulled the other woman into a hug as she approached their overcrowded table. Tables - it took her a moment to realize they shoved together three hightops to accommodate all the bodies.

“You get more out of them at night than I do during the day so don’t complain,” Claire chuckled. Matt leaned in to kiss her cheek in greeting before taking his usual place beside Gabby, his arm around her waist. Brett and Severide were also there, but Kelly had the company of a beautiful woman. Antonio was the first to get up and greet her after his sister. Adam, Burgess, and Roman were also at the table - Kim playing the buffer between the two men. 

She hugged and shook hands with the men and women she knew, but there were a few new faces she didn’t recognize. 

“Alright,” Antonio slug his arm over Claire’s shoulders as he introduced some of the E.D. staff from Gaffney Chicago Med. “Dr. Daniel Charles, Head of Psychiatry.” The portly man radiated kindness, holding his scotch with one hand and holding out his other. 

“April Sexton, nurse-” The gorgeous woman half sitting in Severide’s lap raised her eyebrow and Antonio quickly amended, “an  _ astonishing, phenomenal _ nurse.”

“Much better,” she chuckled. She held up her beer in a salute from across the tables. 

“And this curly haired bastard is Dr. Will Halstead.”

“Halstead?” She asked, shaking the hand Will offered. “As in…?”

“As in these guys have the misfortune of working with my older brother,” Will smiled playfully. “Speaking of whom, he and Erin are running late. They’ll be here later.”

“Kevin? Al?” Claire asked the table. 

Adam shook his head as he took a swig of his beer. “Family stuff tonight.”

No one asked about Voight. Claire had the feeling it was for the best - his business was his own and that’s the way he liked it. Perhaps Al or Erin would know, but then again they wouldn’t say even if they knew. 

Claire shrugged out of her jacket and placed it in the first available spot she found. “Alrighty, I’m gonna grab a drink. Any refills?.”

“I can do that. It’s on the house,” Gabby offered but Claire waved her off as she was getting up.

“Oh no you don’t. Besides, Christopher will pitch a fit if I don’t shower him in compliments.” 

She heard the table laugh behind her as she headed to the bar. It took her a minute to move upstream through the crowd but she emerged on the other side to see Herrmann in a blue-plaid button and jeans with a dish towel slung over his shoulder. 

“So this is Molly’s, huh?” Claire asked Herrmann as he slid a beer down the length of the bar. She waited till he was looking at her to exaggeratedly glance around and give a slow yet approving nod. “Between you and Otis, this is nicer than I thought it would be.”

“ _ Nice _ ?” Herrmann scoffed, raising both his eyebrows in surprise. Behind him, Otis shook his head, muttering underneath his breath as he towel dried a highball glass, “Now you’ve done it.”

“Look, Claire-Bear,” Herrmann took the towel off his shoulder and pointed at her with it. “I don’t know who’s been sayin’ what to ya, but Molly’s is more than just a bar - it’s a beacon of hope for every firefighter and cop and paramedic in this city. And when that sign says  _ ‘open _ ,’ no matter what somebody’s lived through that day on the job, they know that the beers are cold and the Blackhawks are on. It’s the beating heart of this neighborhood.”

Claire was momentarily taken aback by how deep Herrmann’s words were, not only what they meant for himself but what they meant for the people sitting around them. There was no doubt he was a salt-of-the-earth kind of guy who valued his community and the people in it. She opened her mouth to thank him, apologize, or hell, she didn’t know, at least respond intelligently to such a moving declaration about a corner street bar. 

Otis popped up and clapped Herrmann on the shoulder. “He’s been practicing that speech for the Portland Pin-Heads across the street. They’re trying to close down the bar with a noise complaint.” 

“Yeah, yeah, don’t get me started on ‘em.” Herrmann shooed Otis away. When he turned back to Claire, he winked. “What can I getcha, Claire-Bear?”

“Guinness, please, and then a better nickname to chase it down with.”

Herrmann barked a laugh as he poured the stout from the tap. “Funny, but no can do, sweetheart. My girl Annabelle’s on a Care Bear kick at the moment and  _ you _ , Ms. Reagan, are what I would describe as the Funshine Bear.”

“Hermie, you call me Funshine and you’ll find out just how quick I can switch you to decaf.”

“All I’m saying is that you’ve got a soul of sunshine and a smile to match, just lights up the whole place, ya know? You’re a genuine person and it shows - nice, through and through.” 

Claire couldn’t help the water in her eyes as she smiled sweetly as the kind man behind the bar. She had to look away and chuckle to keep from letting the tears spill out. She just tilted her head and smiled wider.

“ _ See _ . Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about!” He chuckled and pointed at her with the towel. “Pure sunshine, right there.”

“You’re a good man, Chris.” She had to look away before she started crying. She barely knew the man and already he was making her feel more at home in a couple minutes than she has in months. 

He waved off the money as he pushed the beer towards her. “This one’s on the house. Welcome to Chicago, Claire.”

She raised her eyebrow and put her cash in the tip jar in defiance. She also made a mental note to contact some lawyers she knew to help the guys out with their ‘ _ Portland Pin-Heads _ ’. She gave him a playful wink as she took her beer back to her table. She didn’t notice the smile drop from Herrmann’s face the minute her back turned, or the serious look he shot Antonio over her head. 

Between Antonio at the District and Gabby at the firehouse, they’ve all been talking - hard not to do with something like this - and they all agreed they’d keep an eye out. No better place to do so than in a bar full of cops and firefighters. There was no way they weren’t stepping in if they needed to. 

Dr. Halstead -  _ Will  _ \- pulled out a high chair for Claire as she walked up, her coat already hanging over the back. She gave him a warm smile in thanks as she took her seat. 

“So,” Will began, leaning against the table beside her. “I hear you own a bakery.”

“Shameful, Halstead!” Adam shouted playfully. “That’s like calling the Blackhawks a Junior League team. Six Stanley Cups in her kitchen and-”

“Easy babe,” Kim put her hand over Adam’s mouth. “What he means is she’s phenomenal at what she does. At to just say it was a bakery would be insulting.”

Claire couldn’t help but laugh at table, enjoying the clumsy yet well meaning praise. She turned back to Will. “It’s a cafe and coffee house - a taste of New York. But I can’t take credit for the food. Coffee, breads, and pastries maybe, but the food is all Dom.”

“Dom?” Will asked.

“My partner, Dominic.” She couldn’t keep the warmth out of her tone, her eyes lighting up thinking about him. “We’ve known each other since we were practically in diapers. I don’t think it came as a shock to anyone when we opened up a shop in Brooklyn -  _ Reagan’s Cafe _ \- after Dom left the Navy.”

The smile slowly slid from her lips as she had absentmindedly pulled her silver long bar necklace from her shirt to stroke her fingers over Joe’s badge number etched into it. The table glanced the series of roman numerals - V.XV.MMIX - on her left wrist running up her forearm. 

Those who’ve been to the cafe have seen the memorial shadow box on the wall. She didn’t talk about the ‘hows’ when asked, only that it happened. It wasn’t hard to jump to the next logical conclusion that she’d opened up shop in honor of her brother. The next question they’d ask - one she’d also skirt around answering - was why she’d moved away from a thriving business in the Big Apple to start from scratch here in the Windy City. 

After a moment she seemed to shake herself from various memories creeping up on her and pulled her focus back to the faces looking at her from around the jigsaw of tables. 

“And then, like with everyone else, life happened.” She sighed before fixing the smile back on her face but it didn’t quite reach her eyes this time. “Dom has some service friends here in the city and Chicago’s a good a place as any. Took us another year to save up and,” she held out her arms, “here we are.”

“No matter how you came to be here,” Kelly held up his beer, “we’re glad you made it.”

“ _ A nuevos amigos _ ,” Antonio nodded, raising his own glass. “To new friends.” 

“I’ll drink to that,” Roman seconded with his glass and soon the rest of the table followed with a round of ‘here-here’s. Claire couldn’t help the slight blush from her cheeks as she held up her own glass. 

“Thank you, guys. I don’t think I’ve had a night out in…..quite a while.”

“So your partner, Dominic,” April brought up, shifting on Kelly’s thigh, “is he stopping by tonight? I’d love to pick his brain about what makes his sandwiches better than mine.”

“I didn’t say it was better than yours,” Kelly quickly defended himself. “I just said it tasted different.”

“Uh huh,” April drawled out, lifting her eyebrow while sipping her beer. 

Claire chuckled. “Sorry, April. Dom didn’t feel much like going out tonight.”

Claire caught the glance Adam and Antonio shared out of the corner of her eye. She knew how Antonio was beginning to feel about Dom; coming from a family of cops it wasn’t too hard to tell. She didn’t like it but she’d keep her thoughts to herself for now until it became a problem for Dom. She wasn’t above sacrificing a new friendship for the man. 

She steered the conversation easily away from herself and towards the others. Not long after, Erin and Jay sauntered in and the conversation flowed into good natured scolding. Will had to leave soon after but Claire was able to enjoy the brotherly banter between the Canaryville boys. Will gave her arm a gentle squeeze as he brushed past her to the exit, promising to stop in at the cafe soon. 

The later it got, the more their crowd shrank to only the cops and Dr. Charles. Claire was having such a nice time laughing and getting to know everyone that she hardly noticed. 

“Excuse me,” Dr. Charles tapped her wrist twice to get her attention, “Ms. Funshine Claire Bear?” She rolled her eyes as the handful left chuckled. Herrmann made sure those closest to her table know her nickname as he delivered a new pitcher of beer. “I believe your chair is vibrating. Either I’ve had one too many or there’s an earthquake I’m not aware of.”

“Or someone is calling me,” Claire gently chided him as she reached into her purse. Catching a glimpse of the time first she winced. How did she let it get this late? Her face paled despite the alcoholic flush to her cheeks when she saw who was calling. 

“Excuse me,” she muttered as she climbed down from her chair. With her back turned to the group, she didn’t catch Dr. Charles mouthing Dominic’s name to the curious cops around him. The lock screen photo he managed to sneak a peak was one of an entirely happy couple. They both smiled wide for the camera, his arms draped over her shoulders so she could hold his hands close to her heart. 

Antonio’s jaw clenched; Adam leaned back in his chair and scratched his beard; Jay muttered a silent threat in Erin’s ear to which she nodded and sipped her beer. She and Kim both kept a careful eye on Claire through the window as she took the call on the sidewalk. Dr. Charles was interested in her body language - slowly pacing back and forth as she listened to the other end, one hand rubbing her collar bone, eyes darting side-to-side in anxiety. Her eyes took everything yet nothing in at the same time. After the phone call ended, she dialed a new number and began speaking quickly. 

Claire came back inside a minute later, visibly a little shaken. The happy glow she’d developed over the course of the night had dimmed considerably. She forced a half-hearted smile as she approached the table to grab her coat and purse. 

“Sorry guys but it’s a little later than I thought. I’d better turn in while I can still get a couple hours of sleep.”

“Here,” Antonio said as he stood up from his chair. “Let me give you a ride. You’ve had a bit more to drink.”

“No, no,” she was quick to turn down. She softened the harshness of her tone with a soft smile. “I called a cab while I was outside. Thank you, though, that’s very kind.”

“See you tomorrow, Claire, alright?” Antonio was firm. Something about that phone call unnerved him. 

Claire hesitated for a moment. Antonio expected to see her, make sure she was okay. He knew that something was off and was concerned. She would appreciate that later, but for now she needed to leave. Quickly. 

“Tomorrow then.” She waved as she left. She was out the door and climbing into the waiting cab idling at the curb. 

“So, Doc.” Hermann came up to the table, having watched the woman scurry out of the bar. “What’d you think? Should we be getting involved or what?” 

“I think,” Dr. Charles said slowly, nodding as he gathered his thoughts. Having been sipping on the same glass the entire night, he had been clear minded enough to observe the woman for the past couple hours. The last five minutes were the most enlightening. “I think I’ll grab a cup of coffee tomorrow morning.”

Unsatisfied with the non-answer, Jay sent off a quick text to Mouse. He needed hard answers. 


	7. Nightmares, Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's a bit short, but it's nearly two months since an update so......Hopefully I can upload Part Two to this chapter within the week.

The cab ride to Dom’s from Molly’s didn’t take long. It only seemed to drag on because of the repeated attempts to call Dom’s cell failing to get through. She’d call, listen to the dial tone until it sent her to the anxiety inducing automated response - “ _ The party you are trying to reach is unavailable at this time. Please try again later _ ”. The call would automatically drop and she’d repeat the process. 

When they pulled up to the curb across the street from Dom’s building, Claire tossed her cash over the front seats and dashed out the doors before the cab was in park. She barely registered the rude shouts of the cabbie behind her as she jetted across the street. Lucky for her, there were no cars out at this time of night to worry about hitting her. 

Fumbling for the right set of keys on her ring, it took seconds longer than Claire would have liked to open the lobby door. Even though it might have been faster, the adrenaline in Claire caused her to overlook the elevator in favor of running up the five flights of stairs. Another minute or so wasted. 

She stumbled onto the landing for the fifth floor stairwell exit, grasping at the door handle to keep her from falling back down the way she came. She tried jerking the door open, but it wouldn’t budge. It seemed no one had taken the stairs in a while, she thought absentmindedly, a complete fire hazard. If she couldn’t get to Dom all because of this stupid door not being lubed up with some WD-40 every once in a while, she was taking an axe to the landlord. She threw her shoulder into the door for another minute, each time widening the gap little by little until one final slam caused her to throw herself into the hallway and crash into the opposite wall. She wouldn’t be surprised if her shoulder and bicep was black-and-blue come morning. 

Panting and doubled over with her hands braced on her knees, she allowed herself a moment to catch her breath and swallow down the alcohol looking to make a swift appearance in her throat. She made her way down the hallway to Dom’s door, her hand sliding along the wall for support. Late night panic cardio wasn’t the best workout after a night of drinking with firefighters and cops - people known for throwing it back and holding it down. 

Claire beat out the familiar staccato rhythm against Dom’s door so he would know it was her. She had keys to his place, just as he had keys and codes to hers, but she didn’t want to use them unless it was necessary to enter. Walking in on Dominic unannounced never led to anything good - no matter what kind of mood he was in. At best, you saw some morally questionable and highly graphic pornography a good Catholic man would cry watching; at worst, could you land yourself in the nearest emergency room for a night’s stay. 

Claire would take porn any day over the alternative to know Dom was alright and just ignoring her in order to, you know... _ relax _ . 

“Dom, baby?” Claire called out. She kept her voice low enough not to wake the neighbors through the thin walls, but loud enough to hopefully reach inside. “You in there?”

“Dominic?” She knocked again. “It’s Claire. Open up.”

Inside the apartment, she heard the faint click-clacks of Gunner’s nails on the hardwood floor as he trotted over to the door. He sniffed at the crack before whining and pawing at the door handle when he caught Claire’s scent. 

Something was wrong. 

“Gunner,  _ hilfe _ ?” Claire called out to the dog from the crack underneath the door. “Daddy needs  _ hilfe _ ?”

Gunner replied in a crisp, yet demanding bark. Dominic needed help and Gunner wasn’t able to get to him. 

“ _ Shit, shit, shit, shit, _ ” Claire kept up a steady stream cursing herself as she thumbed her keyring for the one to Dom’s front door. There was another one that unlocked the deadbolt to his bedroom that she pulled off the ring as well. “ _ Fuck me _ .”

With her worry increasing, she danced on her tiptoes back and forth as she struggled to get the key into the lock despite her shaking hands. She wanted to scream, cry, vomit, and piss all at the same time if she didn’t get that goddamn door open quick enough. Her heart beat faster and faster the more she struggled. 

When the key finally slid into the lock, she twisted the knob and shoved the door open. Unfortunately for Gunner, the Shepherd was too close to the door and nearly went into the wall with the door. He jerked himself out of the way in time only to lunge at Claire’s jacket. He took the sleeve between his teeth, careful of her arm inside of it, to none too gently drag her towards the bedroom door down the small hallway. 

Gunner let go of Claire’s arm to jump on his hind legs to scratch and whine at the door handle, his large brown eyes radiating worry. It was locked. 

“I know, bud, me too.” Claire scratched his ears as she gently pushed him off the door. She gripped the key to his bedroom door tightly in her hand until the edges bit painfully into her hand. She was fighting with herself on whether to use the key or not - she didn’t want to, but she knew she’d have to if Dom was in trouble. Claire released a steadying sigh before she raised her hand to knock on the door.

“Dominic. It’s Claire.” She waited a couple seconds before pounding harder on the door. “Dominic, open the door. I have my key but I don’t want to use it. Please, don’t make me.”

Again, Claire was met with no response. When Gunner’s ears pricked up and he renewed his attempts to dig underneath the door, Claire pressed her ear to the hardwood. The silence she was expecting was broken by strained, hoarse moaning and fitful thrashing of bedsheets. 

“ _ Shit _ ,” she cursed, tapping her forehead against the bedroom door. He was having a nightmare. He never told her about them in detail, but she knew enough about his service record to know whatever plagued his dreams was dark and never worth mentioning unless you wanted nightmares yourself. Danny, Dad, and Pops seemed to be the only ones he was able to talk to - brothers-in-arms that had seen and done similar horrific things in times of war. They may not know the extent of Dominic’s pain, at least not as intimately as Claire did, but they were there to listen when he needed it. 

Claire had no choice - she had to go in and try to wake him up. It wasn’t the best (or safest) plan, but it was the only one she could come up with in the mental haze of panic. She stripped off her coat, tossed it onto the couch, and took a steadying breath as she slid the key into the lock. The metallic slide of the deadbolt was thunderous in her ears, ominously adding to Dom’s distressing sounds. 

Gunner shoved open the door once Claire cracked it and shot onto the bed. Dom was thrashing about as if he was fighting against invisible restraints, the sheets spread precariously around him and the floor. Gunner was doing his best to lick and nip Dom’s exposed skin in order to wake him up. 

Claire was willing to stand back and help to soothe Dom when Gunner woke him up, but it wasn’t working. Dom was still thrashing, shoving Gunner away from him. The service dog never relented and kept coming back. 

Claire slowly approached the nightstand, keeping her back to the wall and putting as much space between herself and the bed as possible. She’d learned fairly quick after Dom came home to never startle him, especially when he was sleeping. She leaned down to click the table lamp on and quickly pulled back her hand. 

Still no waking reaction. Still fighting invisible restraints, thrashing about with his arms and legs spread and tangled in the sweat-dampened sheets. 

“Dominic,” she called out softly, but her voice shook. She cleared her throat to try again, more clearly. “Dom, baby, it’s Claire. You need to wake up, okay?” 

Dom’s erratic movements began to slowly calm into violent shudders shaking his body, already drenched in sweat that was rapidly cooling on his fevered body. Gunner laid down by Dom’s side, his paws on Dom’s chest, and continued to lick Dom’s face and neck. Claire took a step closer. 

“You’re here, you’re safe. You’re with me in Chicago. With Gunner. We need you to wake up. Okay?” She took another step, then another, until she was by his bedside. “Wake. Up.”

Dom’s eyes were racing back and forth underneath his closed eyelids, but gave no indication of waking up. She slowly lowered herself onto the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle him. Gunner paused to glance wearily up at Claire - even he knew this was a bad idea. 

“Yeah, I know, but it’s not like what you’re doing is working either,” Claire muttered to the dog. Gunner softly woofed his disapproval but went back to nipping Dom’s jawline. 

She hesitated reaching out her hand, trembling slightly as she extended her fingers. She brushed the spattering of dark hairs on his chest with the pads of her fingertips before laying the palm of her hand over the black handprint tattooed there. 

It was the size of a newborn’s hand.


	8. Nightmares, Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The following is excerpted from Chapters Seventeen - Nineteen of David Bellavia’s “House to House: A Soldier’s Memoir”. All credit and rights reserved to him. Although I am placing Bellavia’s actions here in the context of Dom’s story, I strongly recommend you read Bellavia’s memoir where he painstakingly shares what he has done on behalf of his country. Again, these words are not my own, nor do I intend to pass them off as such. Bellavia’s story is one I thought to share by placing it in context of a character’s spiraling PTSD.

_ “Fuck these guys. They’re dead.” _

_ *** _

_ I turn around to find Staff Sergeant Lawson running towards me.  _

_ “Whaddya doin, [Monaghan]?” he asks. _

_ “We’re going back in.” _

_ A ripple of shock flits across his face, then vanishes. He sets his jaw and comes close to me. He’s drenched with sweat, and as he speaks, I can see his whole body shivering.  _

_ “I’m not going to let you go in there and die alone.” _

_ Now it’s my turn to be shocked. I thought he’d try to talk me out of it. Instead, he’s just set the gold standard for devotion to a brother in arms. In that instant, I feel closer to Lawson than to my own kin.  _

_ His words force me to confront a fact that has been hiding in the back of my own mind. We could die. I could die. I don’t want to face it, but the look in his eyes reinforces the words. He’s right. There may be no coming out. I start to shiver, as if every muscle from my toes to my eyelids picked this moment to spasm.  _

_ If I die, my death will be something I brought on myself. At least I'll go down fighting in the house, where I should have made my stand the first time. If they shoot me here in the street, I deserve that death without honor. If I get killed inside the house, well, I’ll be dying for the right reasons. That is good enough for me.  _

_ “Dude this is fucking insane,” is all I manage to say. I want to tell Lawson so much more. I want to tell him what he’s just done for me. His words, his loyalty, the bond he's just shown we share. It’s unusual in my life, and I want to tell him. I don’t know how.  _

_ Lawson nods his head. “I know, but I’m not going to let you die alone.” _

_ “You’re fucking coming?” _

_ “Absofuckinglutely.” _

_ *** _

_ I want him to throw the grenade over the wall and as close to the house as possible. The blast should cause the insurgents to duck their heads long enough for us to rush into the courtyard. I don’t want to get through the gate only to be greeted with a hail of machine-gun fire.  _

_ I tell Maxy to throw the grenade.  _

_ He pulls the tape off, unbends the pin, and pulls it out. The spoon flies off, the grenade sizzles. He tosses it awkwardly, the SAW slipping around on his back.  _

_ Lawson grabs Maxfeild and tosses him to the ground as he screams, “Oh shit!” _

_ As soon as I see his release, I know we’re in trouble. The throw looks short. I pull Ohle behind the Bradley. The grenade bounces atop the rim of the outer wall, bounces again and teeters on the edge. I’m convinced it’s about to fall into the street and blow up, spraying the Brad with shrapnel. _

_ At the last second, it rolls off the wall, and lands in the courtyard. BOOM! A cloud of dust unfurls.  _

_ I noticed that the wall is so thick the grenade didn’t even buckle it. _

_ *** _

_ It is time to go. _

_ *** _

_ We’re going to be running across an open stretch of terrain, probably covered by at least one insurgent with a machine gun. Who knows how many others are on the roof. If we draw fire, the only thing that will save us is the fluidity of our motion. Before we launch our assault, I drill that into my men. _

_ “If we take fire and somebody goes down, no one render aid. I don’t care if I’m hit and screaming to Jesus. Leave me. Do not look down. Do not look back. Continue to move forward and shoot. Kill the threat or we all go down.” _

_ With wide eyes all around, everyone nods. _

***

_ I take a step. The motion breaks all reservations and suddenly we’re moving. Weapons at high ready, we round the gate and pour into the courtyard. Maxy and Ohle match me stride for stride. Ware is right on my ass. Lawson trails him, his 9mm pistol in hand.  _

_ We blitz past the first columns. I’ve got my eyes on the windows and rooftops. Ohle and Maxy scan the flanks. No fire greets us. I’m stunned by this. A minute ago, these insurgents couldn’t wait to kill us in the street. The Brad and our grenade barrage must have forced them deeper into the house.  _

_ I’m panting now, my gear rattling as I lead my group to the door. We pass the second set of columns. With hand signals, I tell Ohle and Maxy to take up positions on either end of the house. They reach the corners and cover the sides. I smack Ohle on the helmet and give him a push in the butt. That’s my signal for” get prone”. _

_ Lawson stops short of the house and covers the windows. He’s particularly wary of the kitchen window after the PKM in there nearly killed his entire squad. He eyes it like a cold predator. Should somebody pop up there, both Ohle and Maxy would be sitting ducks. They need Lawson to protect their backs.  _

_ I reach the front food. It is standing open, inviting. The insurgents want this battle. It is their turf on their terms. They have all the advantages. Inside the foyer, it is pitch black. The little fires that had been burning have been snuffed out. As I move through the foyer, I notice I'm sloshing through a quarter inch of water. The Bradley’s barrage must have blown apart a water tank in the kitchen.  _

_ Then the smell assails me. It is really rank in here now. It conjures soggy, rotting fish. The stench is powerful and putrid, and I beat back my gag reflex.  _

_ I pause to look behind me. Ware is in the doorway gazing right at me. He nods and has an expression on his face like a father about to watch his son pedal off on his first bike. That really pisses me off. Who the fuck is he? _

_ Then he takes two steps into the room. Now he’s right behind me.  _

_ I shake my head to show him my seriousness about him coming farther into the house.  _

_ I turn away from him and take a look into the living room through my NODs. It is empty. I start to move, but decide to check on Ware one more time. He’s at the front door now. He bends down, places his video camera in the foyer and backs out into the courtyard. The red blinking light on the recorder is the only light I can see. Lawson slowly creeps past him into the house, his nine mil at high ready. He touches my shoulder with one hand, letting me know he’s right next to me. I slap his hip, a signal for him to get behind me and hug the foyer wall. His presence reassures me, and for a fleeting moment, all the tension that’s built up eases just a bit.  _

_ I flick the safety off on my M16 as I start to move again. This time, I inch into the back of the living room. For a second, I’m exposed in the insurgent’s field of fire as I rush for the common wall with the kitchen. I get to the back corner just as the fuckers under the stairs start whispering to each other. The hushed tones in the darkness are unnerving. I freeze and try to listen.  _

What are they up to?

_ My heart beats so hard it feels ready to come through my chest plate. I drop on all fours and crawl to the stairwell room doorway. Cautiously, I take a peek. _

_ Just as my head pokes around the door frame, a burst of gunfire echoes through the house. Though it came from outside, it still startles me so badly that I jerk backward and nearly lose my balance. My heart kicks into overdrive, pounding so hard I can hear the blood rushing through my ears.  _

_ My night-vision goggles reveal little in the room around me. It is so dark, they barely function. The dim green outlines provide a surreal scene. It is heard to focus. My breathing comes quick and shallow. I’m probably hyperventilating.  _

_ I look up at the wall I’m using for cover. The insurgents have already shot it up during the earlier fight. Scores of bricks have been blasted to dust by the AK rounds. Pieces of them lie scattered on the living-room floor. This is nominal cover at best.  _

What a huge mistake. You can’t fuck up like this. They’ll kill you before you can even get in there after them. 

_ I’m getting light-headed now. Panic grips me. I’ve chosen the worst place to be in the house. If they open up with that machine gun, the wall will simply crumble around me. If I go through the doorway, well, they’re waiting for that.  _

_ Okay, I’ve got to do something that evens the odds a bit. I lean back against the wall and try to think, but my mind is floating. Everything has an ethereal quality. I hear noises all around me. I can’t tell what is my imagination and what is real. Am I hallucinating? _

Get a grip. Get a fucking grip.

_ I wack myself on the helmet. I’m still disoriented. It fails to clear my mind.  _

Come one, you’ve got to get a hold of yourself. 

_ And then, I hear one of the insurgents speak from the stairwell room. He slurs something in Arabic with such preternatural calm that it sounds almost disembodied. The serenity in his voice is so out of place that it jars my nerves. A flood of terror ices my spine, and for a second I’m paralyzed. _

_ The voice says something else. I can’t understand it, but it is so tranquil and languid that I suspect he’s drugged up. _

_ In the distance, rifles bark. A shotgun blasts. Then I hear Fitts and Hall screaming. Is there an insurgent on the roof keeping them from getting into the courtyard? If so, we really are on our own now. They won’t be able to get through the courtyard to use. Since we’re inside, they can’t use Cantrell’s Brad to stitch the roof again. _

_ What have I done to myself? This is crazy. _

You’re going to die.

_ My breathing is rapid fire. My head swims. I’m losing all control.  _

You stupid fuck. You’ve trapped yourself.

_ Then comes another voice, strong and confident. “Allahu Akbar!” _

God is great? What was that for? What the fuck are they doing? Is one of those dudes about to strap on a C-4 vest and take us all out? Is he psyching himself up before he detonates?

_ I have to act. I have to find out what they’re doing and put a stop to it. The I remember the 40mm grenade tucked in the launcher on my M16. That should do the trick. I get up into a crouch, then swing the rifle into the doorway. I don’t aim; I just trigger the grenade. The grenade sails across the stairwell room, through the room where the insurgents are, and right out the back door that stands open a few feet to the right of the insurgent’s bunker. A second later, I hear an explosion in the palm grove garden behind the house. _

Nice work. I’ve wasted my only 40mm.

_ I pull the M16 out of the doorway and roll back against the wall. As I do, my PEQ-2 gunsight lazes the living room and flares on something against the far wall. I notice the mirror fragment mounted low on the wall. There are others in here as well, strategically placed so the men in the other room can peer around every corner. I also make out something else: stacks of propane tanks lining one wall.  _

_ I’m in a room filled with flammable gas and open flames.  _

_ The insurgents can see every move I make. They can anticipate when I’ll come through the doorway. That’s why they were able to fire so effectively when we were all in here.  _

_ But it works both ways. Through the haze, I can see them. The one with the two AKs is young. The one behind the PKM has a well-trimmed beard and wears a wife-beater type of T-shirt.  _

_ They sit and softly recite their mantra over and over again.  _

_ “Allahu Akbar.” _

Jesus, that’s unnerving.

_ In one mirror fragment, I watch the younger insurgent lower his AK. He bends down and pulls out what looks like a vest.  _

Oh my God. He’s going to blow us all up with a bomb vest.

_ I continue to watch. It turns out to be not a vest, but a bag. The young one reaches in and withdraws a yellow-tipped rocket, a reload for an RPG launcher. He fumbles with the warhead. He’s trying to arm it. _

_ Right then, I know I’m dead. I'm trapped in the living room just as thoroughly as Fitts and the rest of the platoon had been only a few minutes before. If I run, they’ll cut me down before I even get to the foyer. If I stay in place, they'll fire a rocket into the propane tanks stacked against the far wall. That’d probably blow a good portion of the house to pieces. That’ll kill me, Lawson, and Ware. Maxy and Ohle will probably die, too. _

_ I don’t know if it is the air quality or the fact that I am breathing so quickly, but I'm so lightheaded and dizzy now I can’t tell what’s real and what’s running through my mind. My handle on reality is slipping.  _

_ I’m confused and wracked by fear, convinced that these are my last few moments. Words spill out of my mouth but I can’t tell what i’m saying. Am I even talking aloud, or am I hearing my thoughts? _

_ “Allahu Akbar!” _

Oh Jesus.

_ More words tumble out. What am I saying? I have no idea. What’s going on? What am I doing? _

***

_ I know I don’t have much time left. The younger insurgent is still trying to prep the rocket, but any second his fumbling fingers will get it armed.  _

***

_ From the next room I hear more whispers. “Allahu Akbar.” _

_ *** _

_ “ALLAHU AKBAR! ALLAHU AKBAR!” _

_ In one sudden rush, I carry the fight to my enemy.  _

_ *** _

_ Somebody must die now. There is no turning back. _

_ I bring my rifle to the ready up position. The M16 feels right; it is exactly what I need right now. Tucked firmly against my shoulder, I have a perfect eye line over the rifle’s sights.  _

_ Across the room, I see the young insurgent standing behind the barriers. His head is down, still working on the RPG. The kid’s gotta be drugged halfway to Neptune.  _

_ I take a step into the room; my feet slosh in the water and send ripples across the floor. The M16’s barrel pivots and stops when it is pointed at the insurgent’s chest. I have the sight pictured. My finger is about to end him. _

_ He looks up. He stares at me with terror in his eyes. I know right then that I have surprised him. He doesn’t have a chance, and he knows it, too. _

_ “Jew!” he hisses in fear and spite, as if the word can protect him.  _

***

_ I know I’ve surprised him. His face is a portrait of fear. Instinctually, I know I’ve won. He knows it, too. _

I have you.

_ I pull the trigger and hit him right in the chest. He staggers back. I take a step to the left to move out of the doorway. The room’s carpet is so waterlogged that my boots make a sucking sound with each step.  _

_ After a heartbeat’s pause, I shoot him again. This time, my bullet goes into his pelvis. He spins completely around and falls across the barrier. Hands splayed, head draped, he gushes blood across the concrete. The water around him turns a milky crimson. _

_ The last thing he expected was a rush through the doorway. That surprise saved my life and doomed his. _

I can win this fight. I can do this. 

_ A red heat forms on my face. The back of my neck tingles.  _

Where’s the second guy?

_ In a nanosecond I slip from confident to borderline panic. I’m in the open, exposed with no chance to return fire before he juices me. He has me cold, just like I had his friend.  _

_ My eyes dart to the right. The man with the well-trimmed beard is there, running across the room. My surprise appearance and the death of his friend have panicked him. He tries to flee. As he reaches the kitchen door, I fire two quick shots. I think one hits him in the back below his shoulder, but I can’t be sure. _

_ The door swings closed.  _

_ I slosh farther into the room, sliding left as I keep my rifle trained on the kitchen door to the right.  _

I’ve got to find some cover. If this dude comes out of the kitchen, I’m dead. 

_ The stairway is the only thing that can give me any sort of protection. I head to it, and kneel down a few steps up from the bottom.  _

***

_ I feel like I’m in a trance. Everything has an ethereal quality. Motion seems fluid and slow. The adrenaline shots my body has taken have left me a little dizzy and nauseated. My stomach flutters. I train my rifle on the living room doorway. _

***

_ Something clunks on the floor upstairs. I glance up to the landing above me. Then I hear the insurgent in the kitchen. My eyes go back to that doorway. I hear a footstep above me. Then another. _

_ There’s somebody upstairs. _

_ I could get rushed from two different directions at one. I realize how precarious my position is.  _

_ And then I glance behind me. Over my left shoulder I see a doorway next to the stairwell. _

Oh my God. I have an uncleared room to my rear. 

_ My heart rate goes cyclic. Another surge of sweat soaks my uniform and gloves. I can’t cover all three threats at the same time.  _

I’m in real trouble. Stay calm. You’ve got to fight your way out of this. 

_ The insurgent in the kitchen recovers his composure. He rallies and kicks the door open. “Fucking Jewish dog!” he spits in broken English as he opens fire. Bullets splinter the stairs and burrow into the ceiling right in front of me. I duck against the wall.  _

_ He fires again. _

_ I roll right and get my M16 on him. I trigger a few rounds. He ducks back inside the kitchen.  _

_ That’s when I see Lawson. He’s standing in the doorway to the living room now. He’s got his 9mm pistol in one hand, and I watch him slam home a clip.  _

_ “Lawson, how many you got left?” _

_ “One,” he says morosely. _

_ Lawson looks waxy and gray. His right sleeve looks slick and wet. I wonder if he’s been wounded. _

_ “Lawson, you okay?” _

_ “I think I’m hit.” _

_ “You’re shot?” _

Oh fuck. Fuck.

_ My breathing is ragged. I’m shivering in my sweat. I’ve got to slow down and think this through.  _

_ “Lawson, get out of here. Get me a SAW and a shotgun.” _

_ “I’m not going anywhere, [Monaghan].” _

***

_ With a sudden rush, the insurgent in the kitchen throws open the food and storms out into the room, searching for a target. He’s got a snub-nosed AK in one hand.  _

_ Reflexively, my M16 comes up. I feel the stock, cold against my shoulder. I pull the trigger. A fan of blood sprays from his back and spatters the wall behind him. It’s an exit wound. My bullet went all the way through him. It spins him off balance. I fire four more times. He falls through the door to the kitchen and disappears.  _

***

_ I hear movement over my head. _

_ The man in the kitchen moans. _

I could leave right now. I could run for the living room and get out. I can still survive this.

_ I can’t move. Fear and pride intermingle. _

I will not dishonor myself again. I will not let my men see me run again. Ever. 

_ Every sound, every footfall seems magnified. Each one sends an ice pick into my nerves. My survival depends on both instinct and training. _

***

_ I hear another thump upstairs _ .

Someone’s coming for me.

***

_ Something makes a brushing sound, like a jacket swishing against a wall. I can’t tell where it came from. _

Stay calm. Stay focused. 

***

_ A hollow footstep, like a boot on wood, comes from upstairs. Someone’s on the stairs, around the corner from the landing. _

_ I withdraw a fresh mag from the pouch - this one’s nice and heavy - and slap it home. I slink my bolt forward.  _

_ Crouched on the stairs, I wait. Waves of fear rock me. I feel unsteady and totally vulnerable. _

You’ve got to use the fear. Use it. Control it. Don't let it overwhelm you _. _

_ A scraping sound echoes through the house. I can’t tell where it came from.  _

I still have an uncleared room behind me. 

_ The hairs on the back of my neck stand straight up. My instincts tingle. I am certain somebody is behind me. If I stay here, I will die. I’ll either get hit from the stairs or get shot in the back. _

_ I slip off the stairwell and work along the wall until I reach the doorway. I slide into the back room, back against the wall so I cannot be surprised from behind. I made out a small mattress on the floor and a stand-alone armoire sort of closet on the far wall. I’m in a bedroom. _

_ I hear footsteps on the stairs. Someone is hunting me.  _

_ I push myself along the wall until I come to a small alcove. I duck inside.  _

_ More footsteps on the stairs. He’s close.  _

***

_ Another footfall on the stairs. I hear a board creak. He’s right at the edge of the bedroom door.  _

***

_ The room is a black hole. The darkness is almost total, and it has swallowed me up. I drop my night vision into position and flick it on. The goggles stutter on and off, then fail. Now I have only my natural sense against whoever is on the stairs. My sense against his.  _

Unless he has night vision that works.  _ That thought chills me. _

*** 

_ A black form pivots into the doorway. A muzzle flash leaps towards me and stoned the scene. I catch a quick glimpse of the shooter. He’s wearing a belt of AK ammo pouches around his belly. _

_ A couple rounds slam into the wall right beside me. If it wasn’t for this alcove, I’d be dead.  _

_ Before he can get another shot off, I fire my M16. He bucks and jerks as I hit him again and again and again. My finger flies on the trigger, fueled by terror and adrenaline. By the time I ease off, I’ve hit him in the knees, stomach, and pelvis. He collapses in a heap in the doorway. _

_ A tracer strikes the wall right next to my head.  _

What the fuck? Where did that come from? Is that one of my own shots ricocheting?

_ I look around wildly. Another flash. Another lightning streak shoots past me and smacks into the alcove over my head. It’s another tracer, and this one came from the far wall. _

_ There’s somebody else in the bedroom. _

***

_ Still in a crouch, I inch out along the wall across from the doorway, where the insurgent I’ve just shot lies motionless in a pool of blood and water.  _

Where did those two shots come from?

_ I edge past the mattress. I’m halfway across the room now. Even though it’s dark, I can make out my surroundings, and there is nowhere my enemy could be hiding: a mattress on the floor, the empty alcove, not much else. Everything is quiet. I can’t even hear the Brads on the street outside. This is the kind of silence that breeds terror. I have to keep control.  _

_ I’m almost to the edge of the armoire when I notice two splintered holes in the door. _

There’s a fucking boogeyman in the closet.

_ The door flies open. A form jumps clear: an insurgent with two bandoliers of ammo crisscrossing his chest. He hits the floor amid a tangle of women’s clothing that cascades out of the armoire with him. I’m so shocked that I can't even react. He tumbles past me, only an arm’s reach away. I suck air in surprise and get a lungful of his pungent body odor. He’s as foul and filthy as I am.  _

_ As he passes, he senses my presence and I can tell it startles him. He must have thought I was still across the room. He wins his snub-nosed AK-47 up under his right armpit. The barrel sticks out sideways. He’s about to fire, but he trips on a dress that is half-in, half-out of the armoire. He goes flying and lands facedown on the mattress just as the armoire starts to teeter behind him.  _

_ The armoire tips over and nearly falls on top of him. I duck behind it just as he gets back to his feet and frantically triggers his AK. A wild stream of tracers pierces the darkness. Pellets whine and crack. He runs for it, his weapon still under his armpit, muzzle blazing.  _

_ Bullets thump into the armoire with hollow, hammerlike thuds. Each bullet sends a spray of splinters across the back of the room. Suddenly, I feel a sharp pain in my elbow. _

Am I shot? Is this a bullet, or just a splinter?

_ My heart is a hummingbird. I can’t focus. I can’t even think. Instinct takes over. I get my M16 up over the side of the armoire. The room is a crazy-quilt pattern of darkness and hellish red from the sizzling tracers. I see him. _

Steady. Steady.

_ I squeeze my trigger. The M16 barks. The bullet hits him in the leg. I fire again, but can't tell if I hit him or not. I think I have, but he keeps going. He hits the doorway, spins, and sends another burst right over my head. I duck behind the armoire.  _

_ Then he’s gone. _

_ Hollow footsteps echo through the house. He’s running up the stairs. I hear him scream something as he runs.  _

_ I'm frozen with terror. Did he just call for help? Are there more insurgents in here? I have no idea how many enemy I face. _

_ My elbow hurts. I’m afraid to look at it, afraid of what I might find.  _

***

You Know you will die horribly in here, right? This pain is just a warm-up.

***

How many bullets can you stand? How many before you just say, “End this. End me.” Can you take what Fitts took?

***

Faulkenburg. Fitts. Lawson. All shot. You will be next.

***

_ A door creaks. I can't tell where it came from. I search the blackness and train my M16 on the doorway.  _

_ A moan echoes through the house. It’s wracked with pain and utterly despondent.  _

_ Something splashes in the stairwell room. Whatever that was, it was close.  _

_ Silence. I strain to capture any clue, any bit of noise to tell me what to expect.  _

_ Something slides along the wall on the other side of the doorway. I hear breathing. Comedy is close.  _

_ “I will kill you and take your dog collar.” _

_ It was a malevolent, accented voice, low and totally devoid of fear. Its self-assured tone triggers a memory of the Nicholas Berg beheading video we watched at out base so long ago. It took them twenty-six seconds to decapitate him, and it was horrifying to watch. They were self-assured, too.  _

_ Now my imagination conjures a scene: my severed head, a grimy hand pulling my bloody dog tags free. _

That’s never gonna happen. Never - gonna - happen -.

_ He’s mind-fucking me, this one behind the door. I can’t see him. I start to tremble. I fight it, but I can’t control my body’s physical reaction to this terror.  _

***

The enemy behind the door sniggers. He spits a curse in his native language. Sometimes it sounds like Arabic and sometimes it sounds totally different. Could that have been Farsi?

Am I fighting Iranians in here?

_ “Mommy will never find your body.” _

_ His words are like a stiletto to my self-control. My entire body shakes violently. My stomach heaves. I’m verging on hysteria.  _

***

_ The man behind the door mutters something. All I understand is “Fajarah,” which means “evil one”. _

***

_ “I’ll cut your head off.” His accented English is smooth and so cold and calculated that I can tell he thinks he’s got the upper hand on me. He thinks he’s in control. He’s going to take his time.  _

_ He speaks a few more words in his native language. They are measured and slow. It still doesn’t sound like Arabic. I wonder if I’m hallucinating.  _

Have I completely fucking flipped out?

_ I sense movement. I flick my NODs down and give them one more try. This time, they work. In the dim greenish outline of the doorway, I catch a glimpse of a man’s shoulder and arm. He’s peering inside to look for me. He’s given me a shoulder. _

Big mistake.

_ Another overdose of adrenaline surges into my system. I have him.  _

_ My infrared laser pins a long white line right on his shoulder. I squeeze the trigger. The M16 shatters the quiet. His shoulder explodes. He shrieks and falls into the doorway. He must have been standing on the last stair, leaning in. Now he’s slipped, and he’s mine.  _

_ I pump four more rounds into him. He tries to shoot me, and he may have gotten a shot off. In the chaos, I can’t tell if he’s fired, but I can tell who he is. This is the man from under the stairs who ran into the kitchen at the start of the fight. I recognize his wife-beater T-shirt and well-trimmed beard.  _

I thought I shot you twice already. What the hell?

_ He lands on the floor, bullets in his shoulder, chest, and stomach. _

He’s got to be dead, right?

_ I peer over the side of the armoire. All I see is an indistinct shape flopped on the floor in the doorway. I can’t tell if he’s moving or not. Right then, I hear another moan from somewhere else in the house. It is hollowed out and dull this time, as if whoever made it is close to death.  _

***

_ Faulkenburg. The thought of him sends a curl of anger through me. I shudder and curse under my breath. _

He’s fucking dead. Use it. Use the anger and the grief. Use it to kill these guys. 

_ I’m not leaving this house, not until this is finished.  _

***

_ I focus on Faulkenburg and I imagine the sight of his broken body in the street. I think about Rosales, Sprayberry, Garyantes, Prewitt, and Vandayburg - all the men we’ve lost. Rage boils.  _

That’s right. Use it. Feed it in. Turn it to hate. Use it. It is your fuel. Use it.

_ I take a deep breath and hold it. My nerves are flayed from the whipsaw of emotions. I know I don’t have much left, but I am not going to quit. I can’t. _

_ I rise up from behind the armoire. The darkness is total; the tracers have burned themselves out.  _

***

_ I creep around the mattress, M16 at the ready. When I reach the doorway, I nearly slip. The water here is deeper and cloudy, probably from blood.  _

_ Neither corpse is in the doorway. I study the floor. Dark slicks of blood trail off into the stairwell room. It looks like one or both of them crawled into the kitchen.  _

_ Do I go finish them off and face the threat of somebody coming down the stairs again? I could get shot in the back as I go into the kitchen. Or do I go upstairs and face the bandolier-wearing Boogeyman from the closet? He’s up there, somewhere in the darkness, waiting for me to do just that.  _

_ Or do I leave, get the rest of the squad and do this right? _

No! I brought this on myself. I have to finish it. 

_ Lawson is wounded. He's wounded because I didn’t finish this the first time. I will not risk another man.  _

Fuck it.

_ I step through the doorway and onto the stairs. Eyes on the landing, I drop my current magazine out of the M16. I catch it and sling it into my pouch, then search for my last fresh one. I seize it and slam it home. The new mag makes a metallic  _ snick _ as it snaps into place. I’ve got twenty-nine rounds in the mag and one in the pipe.  _

_ I begin to climb the stairs. There’s no going back now.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The following is excerpted from Chapters Seventeen - Nineteen of David Bellavia’s “House to House: A Soldier’s Memoir”. All credit and rights reserved to him. Although I am placing Bellavia’s actions here in the context of Dom’s story, I strongly recommend you read Bellavia’s memoir where he painstakingly shares what he has done on behalf of his country. Again, these words are not my own, nor do I intend to pass them off as such. Bellavia’s story is one I thought to share by placing it in context of a character’s spiraling PTSD.


	9. Nightmares, Part Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The following is excerpted from Chapter Twenty of David Bellavia’s “House to House: A Soldier’s Memoir”. All credit and rights reserved to him. Although I am placing Bellavia’s actions here in the context of Dom’s story, I strongly recommend you read Bellavia’s memoir where he painstakingly shares what he has done on behalf of his country. Again, these words are not my own, nor do I intend to pass them off as such. Bellavia’s story is one I thought to share by placing it in context of a character’s spiraling PTSD.

_ A desolate soul, bereft of hope, climbs the stairs. There is nothing left in me; I feel the emptiness like a weight on my chest. _

_ I take another step and pause. I hear nothing but the racing of my own heart and the rush of blood through my ears. Maybe he isn't waiting for me. Maybe the house is clear.  _

_ I take another step and pause. Suddenly I become aware of the sounds of the night outside the house. I hear shouting. An AC-130 Spectre rumbles overhead, searching for targets. The throb of the Bradley’s engine rises from the street. Voices step all over each other and melt together in a confusion of babble.  _

_ I’m dimly aware that Fitts is firing his shotgun. I hear two blasts. I have no idea where he is, or how far away.  _

_ I take another step. Two more to go and I’m at the landing.  _

_ Lake a savage animal, I sniff the air. A pungent scent hits my nostrils. It’s the Boogeyman. His appalling stench lingers in the air here. He’s close.  _

_ I take another step with my right foot, only to slip on a slick puddle of blood. My head bobs down and I fight to retain my balance. Just then, a muzzle blast erupts right above my head, not a yard in front of me. The flame spouting from the AK casts flickering shadows on the stairwell wall. I see the shape of the Boogeyman outlined there, his shadow wielding its rifle in my direction. I feel the bullet whir right over my Kevlar. It jars my teeth.  _

I should be dead. That should have killed me. If I hadn’t slipped on the blood, I’d have a bullet hole in my forehead.

_ In a half crouch, I sling the M16 up and fire a wild shot at the landing. My bullet embedded itself in the far wall. But in the light of my muzzle, I see his face. I missed him, but I see his eyes. They’re full of fear. He’s afraid, and that emboldens me.  _

_ “You’re gonna fucking die, dude.” _

_ He runs for it. I hear him clatter up the second flight of stairs. _

_ I move to the landing and follow him around to the next flight of stairs. Smoke swirls trail in my wake. We’ve filled the stairwell with cordite and gunpowder.  _

A slip of one foot saved my life.

_ I can’t possibly have any luck left now. The top of the stairs awaits. All I see is darkness. _

_ *** _

_ I hear movement up ahead. A boot scrape and a grunt tell me the insurgent is not far away. _

_ I hear another grunt. He sounds like he’s moving farther away now. _

_ My elbow aches. I try to ignore it. I refuse to check the wound, still afraid of what I might find.  _

_ I take a step into the blackness. The toe of my boot slides up the next stair and finds footing. I’m three from the top now. I still can’t see anything. I try my night vision again. Nothing. This will have to be done with bare eyes.  _

How long will they mourn? Will [Claire] even care? Or will [she] just hate me for never being a part of [her] life?

_ Stop it. Get a handle on yourself. _

Where will I be buried?

_ This morbid, evil voice wants me to die. It baits me. It wants me to fail. Why am I so self-destructive? Is it guilt? Is it that I don’t think I deserve to live? _

Fuck it. This has to stop.

_ I hesitate on the last stair. For a second I clear my head completely. A deep breath fills my lungs. The night air is cold and fouled with so many terrible smells from the house. Blood. Rotting fish and stagnant water. Filthy bodies. Smoke and sulfur. Am I sure I’m not in hell? _

A shredder. I see a shredder.

_ With careful deliberation, in my mind’s eye I feed every image and every memory of my family into that shredder. The tattered pieces fall out the bottom.  _

No more of this. It stops here.

_ I’m on the second floor now. There’s a door to a rooftop balcony at my side. Another doorway looms down the hall. My enemy is in there.  _

_ I have a grenade. One frag. It is upside down inside the pouch on my body armor. I know this is the time to use it. I should have used it going up the stairs, but I wasn’t thinking clearly.  _

_ I pull the tape off, extract the pin, and hold the spoon down. I inch along the hallway to the door. This is the most vulnerable moment. He’s probably waiting on the other side, ready to shoot whatever part of my body I give him, exactly as I did to his buddy downstairs in the bedroom.  _

_ I peer inside anyway. _

_ He’s standing in the middle of an L-shaped room, a dark figure swathed in blackness. I cannot see his face. He’s just a form, a shadow. A wraith.  _

_ I hold the grenade to my right ear and release the spoon. _

_ PFFTT. _

One . . . two . . . three. . . .

_ I throw the grenade and see it strike him right on the head. He recoils from it as the grenade spins off behind him and disappears. I duck into the hallway and back away from the door.  _

Boom!  _ In the tight confines, the blast is shattering. My ears ring. Smoke boils from the room. I hear a grunt, then a moan.  _

I got him.

_ I spin into the room, M16 steadied on my shoulder.  _

_ He is lying on the floor, a chunk of flesh torn from his right forearm. _

_ I’m about to fire and kill him when I smell propane. It gives me pause. I look around the room for the source. In one corner, a pile of foam sleeping mats are smoldering. Oily black smoke leeches off them. Tendrils wick along the ceiling and intermingle. Soon, the room will be full of smoke.  _

_ Two propane tanks rest at my feet. Stacks of them line the wall. The entire room is nothing more than a giant bomb.  _

_ If I trigger my M16, will the tracer set the propane off? I have no idea. I can’t risk it. _

_ The wounded Boogeyman stirs. He’s flat on his back, but he still holds his AK in one hand.  _

_ I step forward and slam the barrel of my rifle down on his head. He grunts and suddenly swings his Ak up. It barrel slams into my jaw and I feel a tooth break. I reel from the blow, but before I can do anything he backhands me with the AK. This time, the wooden handgrip glances off the bridge of my nose. I taste blood. _

_ I back off and wield my M16 like a baseball bat. Then I step back toward him and swing with everything I’ve got. The front sight post catches him in the side of the head. I wind up to hit him again, thinking that at the very least I’ve stunned him. As I get ready to swing, his leg flies up from the floor and slams into my crotch.  _

_ I stagger backward, pain radiating from my groin. The pain drives me into a fury. I realize I’ve dropped my rifle. I can’t see where it fell; the smoke is getting thicker, and it is so acrid my eyes start to water and burn.  _

_ I leap at my enemy. Before he can respond I land right on top of his chest. A rush of air bursts from his mouth. I’ve knocked the wind out of him. I tear at my body armor and get it opened. With my right hand on the sleeve that holds my five-pound front armor plate, I grab the insurgent’s hair and ram his head forward, jamming his chin into his chest. He’s pinned in place now. All I have to do is finish him.  _

_ I beat him with the inside of my armor plate. I smash it against his face again and again and again until blood flows all over the inside of my shirt. He kicks and flails and screams. Every scream gets cut off by another blow from the plate. He struggles under me. An arm lashes out. Fingers scratch my face. I ram the plate harder into him. He keens and howls, yet he refuses to submit.  _

_ Somebody answers him in Arabic. The voice comes from the roof above us.  _

Oh my God. May back is to the door, I don’t know where my weapon is, and there’s more coming.

_ “Shut the fuck up!” I bash his face again. Blood flows over my left hand and I lose my grip on his hair. His head snaps back against the floor. In an instant, his fists are pummeling me. I rock from his counterblows. He lands one on my injured jaw and the pain nearly blinds me. He connects with my nose, and blood and snot pour down my throat. I spit blood between my teeth and scream with him. The two of us sound like caged dogs locked in a death match.  _

_ We are. _

_ He hits me again, and I nearly fall off him. Somehow, I hold on. I’ve got to slow him down or he’ll get the upper hand. I punch him in the face; my fist meets gristle. Then I remember my helmet. I’ve still got it on. _

_ I yank my Kevlar off my head. My night-vision goggles go flying across the room. I don’t need them anyway. With both hands I invert the helmet and crack his face with it. He shrieks with pain. I bring it up again, but he’s swinging his head from side to side and I don’t aim my next blow well. The helmet glances off his shoulder and hits the floor. I can see that he’s older than the others in the house. His hair is flecked with gray and he’s got age lines creasing his face.  _

_ “ _ Esqut! Esqut! Esqut! _ ” I am hysterical now as I try to tell him to shut up in Arabic.  _

_ He screams on. I hear footsteps on the roof. I do not have long.  _

_ The Kevlar comes down again. This time I connect. It’s a crushing blow to his face. Blood splashes both of us. We’re slick with it. He grabs my hair and tries to punch me again. I bash his face yet again with the Kevlar.  _

_ “ _ Terra era me! _ ” That’s my broken Arabic for ‘stop or I’ll shoot’. _

_ I’m not sure what I expected to accomplish with that. He claws and scratches at me. My elbow burns. My jaw, mouth, and nose spew blood. _

_ My voice isn’t human anymore. _

_ Neither is his. We’ve become our base, animal selves, with only survival instincts to keep us going.  _

_ I slap one bloodied hand over his mouth and jam all my weight down on it. For a moment, it muffles his calls for help.  _

_ “ _ Es teslem! Es teslem! Es teslem _!” I’m almost crying now as I tell him in Arabic to surrender.  _

_ He thrashes and kicks. _

_ “ _ La ta quiome _!” My voice is just about gone. _

_ He lashes out at me. He lands some blows, but my left hand never leaves his mouth. My right hand comes up. I see his eyes go wide. He tries to shake his head, but I’ve pinned it in place. Like a claw, my right hand clutches his throat. I feel his Adam’s apple in my grasp. I squeeze, squeeze, squeeze.  _

_ A choked scream - or was it a plea? I can’t tell. He kicks and bucks. His hands beat against me. I can’t get enough pressure on him. He’s still strong, still in the fight despite everything I’ve done.  _

_ I cannot break his throat. I don’t have the strength. But I can’t take my left hand off his mouth. If I do, he’ll call for his buddy on the roof again.  _

_ “ _ Esqut, esqut _ ,” I whisper.  _ Shut up _. _

_ He opens his mouth under my hand. For a second I think this is over. He’s going to surrender. Then a ripping pain sears through my arm.  _

_ He clamped his teeth on the side of my thumb near the knuckle, and now he tears at it, trying to pull meat from the bone. As he rages against my right hand, his Adam’s apple still in my clutch, I feel one of his hands move under me. Suddenly, a pistol cracks in the room. A puff of gunsmoke rolls over us. The bullet hits the wall in front of me. _

Where did that come from? Does he have a sidearm?

_ I cuff him across the face with my torn left hand. He rides the blow and somehow breaks my choke hold on him. I bludgeon his face. He tears at mine.  _

_ We share a single question of survival: Which one of us has the stronger will to live? _

_ I gouge his left eyes with my right index finger. I am astonished to discover the human eye is not so much a firm ball as a soft, pliable sack. I try with all my might to send my finger all the way through. He wails like a child. It unnerves me, and I lose the stomach for this dirty trick. I withdraw my finger. Something metallic hits the cold concrete flooring. It is the same hand cannon that almost took my head off. His interest in trying to grab it opens a window of opportunity for me. _

_ As he reaches for his pistol, I slam my left fist as hard as I can down onto his collarbone. He swings wildly at me again. My helmet’s gone now. I have no idea where my M16 is. I’ve got nothing by my hands left. And they’re not enough. We will struggle and exhaust each other until the stalemate is broken by whosoever friends show up first.  _

_ I feel my strength ebbing. I don’t have much left. He kicks at me, throwing his whole body into it. I’ve got to end this. But I don’t know how. _

_ “Surrender!” _

_ I’m ignored. He fights on, and I can sense he’s encouraged. He’s close to getting free of me. I swallow hard and gag. My mouth is full of blood, and I don’t know whose. Both of us are slick with it; we have been bleeding all over each other. I taste bile through the blood. My body’s maxed out. I don’t know what to do.  _

_ Somebody shouts something. I listen for Arabic. I think I hear, “Are you okay?” and “God!” _

_ The man beneath me tries to answer but I cork him with another fist to his face. He takes it and jabs weakly back at me. Blood sprays from his face and speckles onto mine. My grip on him loosens. One more push, and he’ll be free.  _

_ Suddenly I remember the night of the breach, when Santos and Stuckert were caught in the wire. I used my Gerber knife to try and cut them free, and when I was done, I clipped it to my belt. I had just used it earlier to poke the dead guy outside in the street.  _

My belt. I have a knife on my belt.

_ I sit up, putting my weight onto his chest. Slowly I get to my feet. My legs are spread, my center of gravity low. I reach for my belt just as he comes up after me. His face rams my crotch. I feel his teeth clamp onto me. _

Oh Fuck.

_ I pummel down on his head, but he grinds his teeth harder. Searing agony, pain I never knew I could survive rakes across my nervous system. It threatens to take my consciousness. I struggle against it, but I am weak.  _

_ It takes a monumental effort to unhitch the Gerber from my belt. I use it as a bludgeon. At first, my blows are pathetic. They land on his head and do nothing to dissuade him. He growls and screams and holds down his bite. I’m almost paralyzed with the pain. It blasts every nerve, every sinew. My brain is overloaded.  _

_ Finally, suddenly, I become a madman.  _

_ My arm comes up over my head then chops down with every bit of power I have left. It sends the Gerber’s handle thundering down onto my enemy’s head. Stunned, he sags back onto the floor.  _

_ I can feel warm liquid trickling from my crotch down my legs but I can’t think about it right now. I flick the Gerber open. The blade locks in place.  _

_ I pounce on him. My body splays over his and I drive the knife right under his collarbone. My fist thrust hits solid meat. The blade stops, and my hand slips off the handle and slides down the blade, slicing my pinkie finger. I grab the handle again and squeeze it hard. The blade slinks back into him, and he wails with terror and pain.  _

_ The blade finally sinks all the way to the handle. _

_ I push and thrust it, hoping to get it under the collarbone and sever an artery in his neck. He fights, but I can feel he’s weakening by the second.  _

_ I lunge at him, putting all my weight behind the blade. We're chin to chin now, and his sour breath is hot on my face. His eyes swim with hate and terror. They’re wide and dark rimmed with blood. His face is covered with cuts and gouges. His mouth is curled into a grimace. His teeth are bared., It reminds me of the dogs I’d seen the day before.  _

_ The knife finally nicks an artery. We both hear a soft liquidly spurting sound. He tries to look down, but I’ve pinned him with the weight of my own body. My torn left hand has a killer’s grip on his forehead. He can’t move.  _

_ I’m bathed in warmth from neck to chest. I can’t see it, but I know it’s his blood. His eyes lose their luster. The hate evaporates. His right hand grabs a tuft of my hair. He pulls and yanks at it and tries to get his other hand up, but he’s feeble.  _

_ “Just stop! Stop . . . Just stop!  _ Rajahan hudna, _ ” I plead. Please truce. We both know it is just a matter of time.  _

_ He gurgles a response drowned in blood. _

_ His left hand grabs my open body armor. He pulls at the nothing inside my vest. His fingers scratch weakly against my ribs. It won’t be long.  _

_ I keep my weight on the knife and push down around the wound in staccato waves, like Satan’s version of CPR. _

_ His eyes show nothing but fear now. He knows he’s going to die. His face is inches from mine, and I see him regard me for a split second. At the end, he says, “ _ Please _.” _

_ “Surrender!” I cry. I’m almost in tears. _

_ “No . . .” he manages weakly. _

_ His face goes slack. His right hand slips from my hair. It hangs in the air for a moment, then with one last spasm of strength, he brings it to my cheek. It lingers there, and as I look into his dying eyes, he caresses the side of my face.  _

_ His hand runs gently from my cheek to my jaw, then falls to the floor.  _

_ He takes a last ragged breath, and his eyes go dim, still staring into mine.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The following is excerpted from Chapter Twenty of David Bellavia’s “House to House: A Soldier’s Memoir”. All credit and rights reserved to him. Although I am placing Bellavia’s actions here in the context of Dom’s story, I strongly recommend you read Bellavia’s memoir where he painstakingly shares what he has done on behalf of his country. Again, these words are not my own, nor do I intend to pass them off as such. Bellavia’s story is one I thought to share by placing it in context of a character’s spiraling PTSD.


End file.
